


Flowers for Margerie

by Jenanigans1207



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley befriends the old lady in the flat below him, Crowley makes a new friend, Declarations Of Love, Fluffy, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, She gets to watch crowley and aziraphale fall in love, and ends up with an adoptive mom basically, and he doesn't know how to deal with it, based off of neil's tweet, eventual ineffable husbands, he just wants to deal with is disobedient plants, just some really warm feelings, like a blanket on a cold winter night, margerie is a bit of a bastard, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 50,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26097283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207
Summary: “What have you got there?” She asked as the doors slid shut behind her, stepping up to inspect the plant. “My, what a lovely thing. Where are you taking it?”“I’m, er, getting rid of it, actually.” Crowley answers, caught off guard by the way Margerie is looking at the plant. “Leaf spots.” He offers as a weak explanation, shifting it so she could better see the offending spot.“Oh, that’s hardly any reason to get rid of it!” Margerie replies at once. “When something is a little damaged like that, you don’t throw it away, you take care of it. A little love and dedication and it’ll be healed right up.”--When Crowley tries to figure out what to do with the plants that disobey him, he doesn't expect to suddenly befriend the woman who lives in the flat below him. But he does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 145
Kudos: 182





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this totally seized me today. I mean, wow, it's been awhile since I've felt the need to write something so frantically.
> 
> In case you're not on twitter, Neil confirmed today that Crowley does not, in fact, damage the plants that disobey him. Instead he "makes shredder noises and sneaks them out and gives them to the old woman who lives in the flat below him". And I was so taken with the idea of Crowley befriending this old woman that I started writing this fic which quickly got wildly out of control.
> 
> This chapter is entirely Crowley's POV. The next three chapters will alternate between Crowley and Margerie's POVs to tell the whole story of Crowley and Aziraphale falling in love. The last chapter is a tiny epilogue from the plant's POV. There will likely be a follow up/companion fic to this that's from Aziraphale's POV.
> 
> For the sake of this fic, pretend that they got laid off from the Dowling's service when Warlock was 7 or 8 and Crowley took up the habit of raising plants after that, as something to do to pass the time until the world ended.
> 
> I had SO MUCH FUN writing this chapter, I hope you enjoy! I have no idea when the next chapter will be up but if the idea continues to possess me the way it has, I wouldn't expect it to be long.
> 
> Also, it's worth noting that there's no actual story about Armageddon on here. This chapter ends with Crowley going off to stop it. Assume that it goes the same way it does in the show and the next chapter picks up after Armageddon is over and addresses their lives after.

The first time one of Crowley’s plants betrays him, he doesn’t know what to do.

He must make an example of it, of course, that part isn’t in question. There will be no disobedience in his flat and he’s determined to drive that point home. But he’s not sure how to do it. He grabs the plant by its pot, stalking out of the room with it, only pausing to send a menacing glare back at the plants who are watching their friend be taken away. They make it to the kitchen and Crowley sets the pot down on the counter, inspecting the plant inside of it, the offending leaf spot a dark focal point on its otherwise luscious leaves.

“How could you have done this?” He murmurs to the plant, turning it around. His tone is softer than he means it to be, sad more than disappointed, so he keeps his voice low so the other plants don’t get any ideas. “Was there something I didn’t give you? More I could have done?”

The plant trembles before him, its leaves shaking unceremoniously as Crowley spins the pot around, inspecting it from different angles, feeling the soil for dampness. He’d given it enough water, it had sunlight, he’d even gotten special potting soil that was supposed to help starter plants like this one. He had done his research on how to prevent things like leaf spots and made sure the plants had all the appropriate nutrition they needed. By all accounts, there was no reason for this plant to be betraying him so.

“Well,” He says, this time sounding as disappointed as he actually feels. Whether he’s disappointed in the plant or in himself is a moot point that he refuses to think about as he fixes his eyes back on the offending spot. “S’nothing to be done but to make a point, I s’pose.”

The plant triples its efforts of trembling and Crowley thinks it would be healing its leaf spot right here and now if it could. With a drawn out sigh, Crowley reaches over to flip on the garbage disposal, the sound loud and grating against his ears. He knows it fills the entire flat and can practically feel the fear of the other plants radiating from the other room. It seems barbaric, but he doesn’t exactly have an arsenal of plant destroying machines about his flat and he can’t think of any better way to handle the situation. The plant betrayed the only order it had been given, it needed to be taken care of. Such was the order of life.

He picks up the plant from his counter, grabbing it by the stems and yanking it out of the pot with little care or concern. The plant seems to vibrate under his fingers as he brings it over towards the garbage disposal, lowering it into the sink, further down, down, down. It’s just a hairsbreadth away from being in the garbage disposal when Crowley stops with a sudden jolt, his other hand bracing against the counter and his head sagging low.

“What am I doing?” He hisses, frustrated. He doesn’t make an attempt to move the plant away, but he doesn’t lower it any further, either. The sound continues in earnest and he just stands there, heaving breaths that his body doesn’t technically need. “Playing God?”

Crowley can feel it in the pit of his stomach— the despair at what he’s trying to do. He doesn’t _want_ to demolish his plant, doesn’t want to punish it for something that very well may not have been its fault. And that’s what he was doing, wasn’t it? Punishing the plant for a small error that it hadn’t even meant. Surely if the plant had any control over it, it wouldn’t have gotten a leaf spot. Crowley had made it clear to every plant in his flat that leaf spots were unacceptable in no uncertain terms. Surely this plant deserved a second chance, deserved to learn from its mistakes and to try again. Where was the fairness in punishment without any warnings first?

He sees it for what it is, and he hates it. It tastes bitter in the back of his throat, makes his stomach flip. 

He hadn’t intended for his gardening habit to turn into what it had turned into. He’d picked a few plants up after he was no longer Warlock’s nanny as something to do to pass the time. With the end of the world looming and damn near six-thousand years under his belt on Earth, Crowley would’ve thought that he’d be able to have a few indoor plants without it turning into— into whatever the fuck it had turned into. He had, apparently, been wrong.

“I am, aren’t I?” He murmurs to the plant again, lifting it away from the garbage disposal finally. “I’m playing God.”

And he knows that he is. He doesn’t need the plant to give him any indication. He’s playing God with house plants, punishing them for disappointing him the way God had punished him for asking questions. He’s forcing them to live in fear, to think about everything they do and he’s casting them out if they so much as even wilt in a little heat. He has set clear, borderline unreasonable expectations for them and then given them no chance to adjust. He’s created his own Garden of Eden— beautiful, luscious and completely unfair in every aspect. 

He’s punishing bloody house plants because still, thousands of years later, he’s nursing the deep scars on his heart from his Fall.

The pain from his banishment from Heaven has never fully subsided, but Crowley has buried it in his heart under layers of mischief and lies, a carefully crafted facade of disinterest. It’s taken thousands of years of practice to come off so easily unbothered by things and Crowley realizes with startling clarity in this moment that these plants have become his Achilles heel— his method for coping with the tragedies of his past. They’re the one weak spot he has, the one spot that would bring him down if it were ever brought up. What he’s doing is so plainly obvious if he just _looks_ and he realizes suddenly that he’s lucky that nobody else has ever had the chance to look. He’s fairly certain this is unhealthy at best and completely mental at worst, but he’s not sure where to go from here.

He can’t very well take the plant back. That would be letting the others know that leaf spots were accepted, which they absolutely weren’t. Even in the face of this realization, he wasn’t about to lower his strict standards or let his plants start getting… ideas. There was clearly something there to unpack and Crowley could deal with that on his own, but his plants needn’t know a thing about it. If he were crafting his own personal Eden, that was his business. But nobody said that he had to model his punishments after God just because he modeled his garden after Her. He could have his Eden and deal with the disappointments in a way that was less traumatizing for all involved. 

“Stay here.” He hisses to the plant, shutting off the garbage disposal and setting it down safely inside the sink. The plant sits obediently in the sink, its leaves perfectly straight, reaching for the ceiling, an attempt at picture-perfect. 

He casts one last glowering look at it before snagging its empty pot off the counter and sauntering back into the other room to show the others that it had been disposed of. It hadn’t, but Crowley made a big show of the empty pot with plenty of glares to keep his plants in line for the next few years, at least. And then, satisfied that he’d reestablished order, he headed back to the kitchen, empty pot still in hand. The plant trembled as he approached, trying to shrink away from him as best as it possibly could. It didn’t deter Crowley, who scooped it back up and dropped it back in the pot like it had never left, gathering it up and heading for the front door, careful to take the long way so the plants in the other room wouldn’t get a glimpse of their distinctly undestroyed friend.

Crowley didn’t even bother with shoes as he padded out of his flat, heading for the elevator. He was simply going to drop this plant off outside, leave it for someone to take. It seemed fairer to give it a second chance— one he had never gotten— and it would keep the other plants from having any idea. A part of him still tasted a bitterness in the back of his throat at the thought that he’d never know what would come of the plant. What good was a second chance, really, if he never got to see how the plant used it? But he would not have the status quo disrupted so he’d resigned himself to using his imagination and allowing the rest of the questions to just fade away. He was leaning against the back of the elevator, pot clutched to his chest when there was a ding and the doors slid open to reveal a woman Crowley recognized as his downstairs neighbor.

She was friendly enough, had introduced herself to Crowley when she’d first moved in and said hi to him every time she saw him in passing. Crowley made a point to be cordial back— manners were important, even for demons— but never got particularly close to her. There wasn’t much point in getting close to humans as it was, and that was especially true with older humans like her— they had even _less_ time left.

“Mr. Crowley!” She greeted as she stepped into the elevator, beaming up at him with a smile that could rival Aziraphale’s. “Good morning!”

“ ‘ello, Margerie.” Crowley greeted with as much warmth as he was capable of. It wasn’t much to speak of, especially given his state of inner turmoil, but Margerie’s smile somehow grew even wider.

“What have you got there?” She asked as the doors slid shut behind her, stepping up to inspect the plant. “My, what a lovely thing. Where are you taking it?”

“I’m, er, getting rid of it, actually.” Crowley answers, caught off guard by the way Margerie is looking at the plant. “Leaf spots.” He offers as a weak explanation, shifting it so she could better see the offending spot.

“Oh, that’s hardly any reason to get rid of it!” Margerie replies at once. “When something is a little damaged like that, you don’t throw it away, you take care of it. A little love and dedication and it’ll be healed right up.”

Crowley tries very, very hard not to relate what she’s saying to his previous revelation about his plants representing him. He fails, but at least he doesn’t say anything about it out loud. That’s a crisis he’ll save for later when he’s alone in his flat, pacing restlessly and trying to figure out when the hell this had all come to mean so very much to him.

“Would you like it, then?” Crowley asks uncomfortably because he needs to be out of this situation as fast as possible. “I’ve got— got my hands full with a bunch of others. Just too much for me but you— you’re welcome to it if you have the— ah the time, and love? did you say? to give to it. S’not really my thing.”

“Oh!” Margerie lights up at the suggestion, looking up at Crowley through his sunglasses and he’s suddenly thankful to have them on because he thinks he might be blinded otherwise. Humans aren’t supposed to be this bright, he thinks dimly as she reaches out to touch another of the leaves. The only other person he’s seen shine like this is Aziraphale and he’s a bloody angel so he has an excuse. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah, please.” Crowley holds the plant out for Margerie, leaning down just the tiniest bit to hiss to the plant, “You be good for her.”

Margerie takes the offered plant graciously, holding it gently against her chest like it’s something precious she’s been given— something she will cherish. Crowley feels a weird twisting in his stomach and doesn’t know what to make of it. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley.” She says almost breathlessly. “I will take great care of it! And you’ll see, in no time that spot will be gone! You’ll have to come by for tea and see for yourself.”

“Er.” Crowley says because— was he just invited for tea? That doesn’t happen very often. “Right, yeah, sounds lovely. You just let me know when it’s all healed up and I’ll pop on by.”

Mercifully the elevator stops on the bottom floor finally and the doors slide open, revealing a series of people waiting in the lobby to head up to their flats. Crowley shuffles out with Margerie because somehow it feels rude not to, even though he can’t possibly explain why. Margerie moves easily, but slower than Crowley and he waits for her off to the side.

“Well,” She says once she reaches him. “Thank you for this gift, Mr. Crowley. It’s really rather lovely.”

“Do you need me to—” He gestures vaguely at the plant and then towards the elevator again because it’s suddenly just dawned on him that she’s leaving and he’s now stuck her with plant to carry around as she goes.

Somehow she understands his haphazard signaling and smiles at him again. “No, that’s quite alright. I’m headed to the store and it’s lovely weather, I can leave it in my car while I shop.”

“Right.” Crowley says. And then he feels like he should say more. “Thanks for, well, taking it off my hands, then.”

Margerie smiles at him as she heads slowly towards the door. “I’ll see you for that cup of tea soon!”

And then, all at once, she’s out the door, plant in tow, and Crowley wanders his way back up to his flat with no idea what had actually just happened.

* * *

In truth, Crowley completely forgets about Margerie, the plant he gave away and the promise he made.

Well, that’s a bit too callous. He doesn’t forget about Margerie— he sees her most days sitting on the bench outside their complex and gives her a polite greeting as he gets into his Bentley and screeches away. Somehow she never mentions the reckless way he drives and he thinks, fleetingly, he should have her meet Aziraphale so she can teach him her ways.

He does forget about the plant, though. And certainly about the promise. He hadn’t even meant to make a promise and he’d never had much intent on keeping it— demon, all that. It was the only reason he could admit that guilt free. But suddenly, a few weeks later, there was a knock on his door and it was different from the way Aziraphale knocked in the few times he’d ever come over to Crowley’s flat for something. Surprised— and certainly on guard— Crowley approached the door and swung it open.

Margerie stood on the other side, beaming her brilliant smile up at him. “Oh, wonderful, you’re home!”

“I am.” Crowley replies, and then he feels ridiculous and redundant.

Margerie presses on like his answer was the only acceptable answer, like he hadn’t just damn near made a fool of himself. “Are you busy this evening?”

And, as it so happened, he wasn’t. Tomorrow he would be busy, heading to the theater to catch a new play with Aziraphale. But today— today he had nothing on his plate. “No.” He replied and then hastily added on to make it sound less curt. “I haven’t got any plans today.”

If possible— and Crowley wouldn’t have said that it was possible if he hadn’t watched it happen— Margerie’s smile grew even brighter. “Well then, how about that tea? Your plant is doing lovely and I’d really like you to see it.”

The promise he’d made comes back to him all at once and Crowley pauses, staring down at Margerie who is quite a bit shorter than him, he’s just now realizing. Being a demon, it would be perfectly fine for him to rebuff her offer, to make up some excuse, to blow it off completely. In fact, it’d nearly be _expected_ of him. But being a decent person— not that he was, he certainly wasn’t— forbid him from doing that. Or maybe it was the way her smile reminded him of Aziraphale’s and the fact that he’d never said no to Aziraphale in nearly six-thousand years.

Or, no, not that. Because he refuses to think like that.

The silence is stretching on and the edges of Margerie’s smile are starting to fall. It’s nearly imperceptible but Crowley feels it like a punch straight to his heart and he knows he can’t let it happen. “That’d be splendid.”

“Wonderful!” She replies and her smile is back in full force. “I’ll just need a bit of time to get the tea and biscuits ready. Why don’t you come down in, say, about an hour? Does that work?”

It does work, and Crowley tells her as much, going so far as to wave awkwardly at her as she heads back towards the elevator. She pauses before stepping in, shooting an encouraging smile at him over her shoulder and then she’s gone and the doors are closing and Crowley is left to wonder what the hell he’s gotten himself into. 

In theory, it can’t be too bad getting to know her, right? If Hell asked— not that Hell ever bothered to check in on him, but if they _did—_ he could just spin some lie about how he was trying to corrupt her. He has to get to know someone before he can successfully corrupt them, after all. And being older with hair that was more grey than not— Crowley thinks it was probably brown when she was younger, there’s still some streaks of it hidden in there— she was closer to being assigned to one side. Plus, if things went according to Plan— as much as Crowley was going to do everything in his power to ensure that it didn’t— everyone would be assigned a side and just over a year when the Earth as he knew it, well, ended. It was for Hell, he told himself firmly as he switched into an outfit that seemed more fitting for tea.

Not that anything he owned was particularly fitting for tea.

He didn’t even _like_ tea, that was Aziraphale’s thing. Crowley preferred coffee, dark, bitter and with a biting aftertaste. He preferred it strong and scalding hot. Tea was too— too _bland_ , too _boring_ , to _mild_ for his tastes.

And yet an hour later he found himself in clothes that were slightly less form fitting, standing outside Margerie’s door, hand poised to knock and a bouquet of flowers that he had miracled at the last moment in his other hand.

Margerie opened up almost immediately, gasping at the flowers as Crowley extended them to her and placing a warm hand on his forearm earnestly as she thanked him for his generosity. She stepped aside to invite him in and Crowley diligently took his shoes off just inside the door like a good guest before being led further back into her flat.

It was exactly how he had pictured her flat would be— homey and outdated in a way that was more charming than anything else. Not for the first time, he thought that Aziraphale and her would get along excellently. They could probably even trade decorating tips since they both seemed to stuck a few eras in the past. There was nothing sleek about the inside of her flat and Crowley thinks he was only able to navigate the mismatched furniture and uneven rugs with such ease because of his centuries of practice moving expertly around precarious stacks of books.

“Nice place.” Crowley knows enough about manners to know that small talk is essential. He’s not particularly good at it, though, given that he spends the majority of the time with another supernatural entity and they skip small talk completely in favor of philosophical discussions and stories from throughout history. 

“Oh, it’s not much.” Margerie says with a fond smile. “But it’s home.” She leads Crowley through one final doorway and he finds himself in a small kitchen. Technically, it’s the same as his— all flats in this complex are exactly the same— but the way she has decorated it makes it look like something else entirely. “Please have a seat while I get these gorgeous flowers some water.”

Crowley obliges, sliding into a chair at the table in the center of the kitchen. He glances around as she moves across the kitchen to grab a vase. His kitchen has a few essentials— very, very few considering nothing material is really essential to a demon— and a few pieces of furniture just for the sake of appearances. Margerie’s kitchen has drawings taped to the fridge, pictures on the wall, mail scattered on the counter. Her kitchen looks lived in with a few crumbs underneath the pantry door and a dirty mug sitting in the sink. It looks human and Crowley finds it frightfully calming— and maybe even a little endearing.

Margerie makes a sound and Crowley snaps his eyes back to her at once, seeing her struggle with one hand braced on the couter and the other stretching as high above her head as possible as she reaches for a vase on a shelf far taller than she is. In an instant, Crowley is up and out of his seat, leaning over Margerie to grab the vase down for her, hardly a stretch at all for his lanky limbs.

“Oh, you’re such a kind one, aren’t you?” Margerie says gratefully as she takes the offered vase from his hands and shuts the cupboards.

Crowley stiffens next to her, opening his mouth before promptly snapping it shut. He is not and has never been _nice_ , or _kind_ , or any other word even slightly resembling those, but that’s not a speech he can give to Margerie. He can’t explain to her that he’s actually a demon and he keeps his plants locked up in his flat as some sort of twisted God complex and futile attempt to right the wrongs of his past. He can’t tell her that he spends his days creating low grade evil and chaos, only occasionally broken up by a blessing when he needed to step in for Aziraphale.

Luckily, Margerie doesn’t seem to notice his pointed silence as she fills the vase with water and then reaches into one of the kitchen drawers for a pair of scissors to cut new ends on the flower stems. They won’t need it— Crowley had well and thoroughly threatened them into behaving, too, but it’s another item on the growing list of things he can’t explain to her so he just resumes sitting at the table and looking idly around in a desperate attempt for some way to make this less awkward.

“Do you see it?” Margerie asks after a moment. Crowley makes some sort of questioning noise that couldn’t quite be considered a word but it gets a smile out of Margerie just the same and she gestures to the plant sitting in the middle of the table. “Your plant.”

“This?” Crowley says, reaching forward to pull the plant closer. It’s in a different, bigger pot than it had been when he’d given it to her and the leaves were exceptionally green. Crowley spun it around, inspecting it, noticing the way the leaves seemed to tremble the tiniest bit as he inspected them. Sure enough, there was the tiniest hint of the leaf spot that had caused Crowley to cast it out, nearly gone now. “It looks completely different.”

She smiles at him from across the kitchen and it’s completely different, somehow, than the smiles he’s seen from her already. This one is smaller, more intimate but just as warm. It makes Crowley feel like squirming out from under the weight of it. “Like I said, it just needed a bit of love. You’d be amazed how much love can change something— or someone.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley feels like he’s losing his mind suddenly. He’s not used to this sort of kindness, he’s not meant to be receiving it. He’s a demon and demons are unforgivable and utterly tasteless, they weren’t the kind of person that someone wanted to spend a casual afternoon tea with. But Margerie continues to shoot him encouraging smiles and seems entirely comfortable with his presence in her kitchen, long legs poking out from under the table at an awkward angle. “I might know a thing or two about that.”

And what the fuck did he think he was doing? 

He wasn’t honestly sure if he was talking about his feelings for Aziraphale or the love that God had ripped away from him but bother were delicate subjects that he had vowed a long, long time ago to never address. He had locked them away and promised himself he would never put words to them ever. And yet.

Crowley tried desperately to write it off as a side-effect of the existential crisis he had worked himself into with the plants but it didn’t stick as well as he’d have liked it to.

Crowley was about a half a second away from verbally backpedaling, making some series of noises that would no doubt display his discomfort when Margerie just smiled at him again and came to join him at the table with the vase of flowers she’d finished arranging. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not—” Crowley swallows, completely baffled at the entirety of this encounter. “Not really. It’s— complicated.”

“Well,” Margerie says kindly and Crowley recognizes that tone. It’s the one Aziraphale uses when he’s purposefully ignoring something for Crowley’s sake, pretending he didn’t see or hear something he knows Crowley wouldn’t want him to know about, locking it away to never bring it up again. “That’s alright, then. We can talk about other things.”

The tea kettle whistles on the stove and Margerie turned around to grab it. She clicked off the stove and settled two cups onto the table in front of their respective seats. She moved a plate of biscuits onto the table, too, before returning with the kettle and pouring hot water into both of the glasses, tea bags already inside.

Crowley still didn’t care for tea, but he found himself suddenly glad for a way to occupy his hands and for something to sip at if he ever needed to avoid her questions. But he never did need to, as it turned out. She deftly avoided any conversation topic that seemed to make him even the tiniest bit uncomfortable, poking around at the shallow stuff like what he did for work— at which Crowley had given a broadly vague _I work with people—_ and how he liked to spend his free time.

Somewhere along the way, though he was loath to admit it and surprised to see it, he melted into the easy conversation. He listened to stories from her childhood, tales of her children’s accomplishments. He laughed as she regaled him with particularly embarrassing stories and smiled fondly when her eyes would drift far away as the memories overtook her. In turn, he told her about Aziraphale— not in the way that she had asked earlier, but just about his presence in Crowley’s life. He told her about their plans for the play tomorrow which had led them off on a discussion about their favorite plays and Crowley was thrilled to find that Margerie preferred the funny ones, too.

“The sad ones— it’s just, why go to the theater to be _sad_?” Crowley is saying, a biscuit in his hand as he gestures wildly. He figures it would be rude not to eat it and he has human appearances that he must keep up. “I can do that alone in my own flat, y’know? Don’t need Shakespeare or— or some other bloke to make me sad. Plenty capable of that on my own.”

A hand suddenly appears over his on the table and Crowley swallows the bite of biscuit he’d finally taken, startled at the stern look in Margerie’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be sad.” She says kindly, maybe a little sad herself. “You have nothing to be sad about, you’re such a wonderful young man.”

“You just don’t know me that well yet.” Crowley mumbles in response, wondering how they’ d gone from laughing about the theater to this. But, it wouldn’t be the first time he mucked something up. He supposes it’s fine, he’s a demon, the conversation probably should have ended this way anyways.

And then Margerie surprises him, her grip tightening over his hand. “Nonsense.” She says at once. “I know you plenty well to know you have a good heart in you, Mr. Crowley. For starters, you gave me a lovely plant and the you brought me beautiful flowers. And you’re spending your afternoon keeping an old woman like me company. That right there is enough. But just in case you’re not convinced—” She makes a pointed look at his expression and Crowley tries to school it back into something neutral, but he’s not certain it works. “I’ve also seen you picking up the litter outside the complex, and holding the door open for the mother with her stroller down in 3B.” Crowley moves to protest— how has she managed to catch all of the undemonic things he’s done?— but Margerie won’t hear it. “You are a very kind person, Mr. Crowley. And I don’t know who made you feel like you need to hide that, but it can be our little secret if you wish.”

Crowley feels a distinctive emotion threatening to close up his throat and he can’t swallow around it as well as he needs to. He takes a deep breath, his hands flat against the top of the table. He knows he should deny it but there’s something so open and honest in the way Margerie is looking at him, something that feels like a safe-haven.

“Crowley.” He finally manages to choke out. “Everyone just calls me Crowley. Er, well— my friends do.”

He really only has one friend to speak of but it’s not untrue. Regardless, it gets the point across and Margerie is once again smiling that brilliant smile at him from across the table, her thumb tracing patterns across the back of his hand.

“Our little secret then, Crowley?” She asks again, her voice a soft whisper, a promise of privacy, a solemn oath to not repeat anything she’s heard from him, seen him do.

It only takes a moment of hesitation before Crowley offers her a weak smile. “Our little secret.”

* * *

Much to Crowley’s surprise— and certainly to his disdain— it doesn’t actually take that long for another plant to betray him.

He spares a moment wondering if they know what happened to the previous plant and are looking for a way out, but then discards it as a ridiculous notion. Plants can feel fear, that much is evident every time he walks into the room, but they’re certainly not forming complex theories about their owner. So, Crowley drags that plant out of the room, too, turning on the garbage disposal as he enters the kitchen. This time he has enough thought to throw something down there— some bit of wood he miracled up— just so it sounds more realistic. Maybe the plants _had_ realized that nothing had gone down there last time. He won’t make that mistake again.

Once he’s certain he’s got the full attention of the house, he stalks back in with a replica of the pot the plan was still residing in, stalking around and staring down each plant individually, holding the pot in front of each of them one-by-one so they had no choice but to see. He hissed out a few pointed threats and then left, heading back to take this plant down to Margerie, too.

Crowley isn’t sure why he thinks that’s an okay thing to do. Just because Margerie had taken one of his plants didn’t mean she wanted to acquire her own forest inside her flat. Still, there was something about her— something that Crowley couldn’t put his finger on, no matter how much he thought on it— that made him certain that she would gladly take it.

In the end, he was right. 

She opened the door to her flat and immediately broke into one of her beaming smiles as she saw Crowley standing there with another plant in his hands. This one had flower buds that hadn’t yet bloomed. They would be beautiful, though, Crowley had made sure of that.

“Crowley!” She says, and she steps aside immediately, ushering him in. “What a lovely surprise. I was just baking, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t need to stay—” Crowley starts to protest immediately feeling like he’s inconvenienced her.

“Nonsense!” She waves a hand and gestures for him to follow her into the kitchen. “I’d love some company while I bake.”

Crowley kicks off his shoes obediently, wondering how he’s now gotten himself into this situation _twice_. He pads quietly down the hallway after her, carrying the plant along with him the entire time and feeling distinctly foolish. They enter the kitchen and sure enough there are ingredients scattered all over and Crowley gets a waft of warm chocolate.

“I had another plant—” He pauses, certain that saying the plant had betrayed him was not a normal thing to do. “It’s ah, got the spots. And, y’know, not my thing, all that.”

“Is that why you’re carrying that lovely thing?” Margerie asks, pausing at the sink and looking over at him.

“Yeah.” Crowley says, feeling kind of small for some reason. “Was wondering if you wanted it? Or wanted to— to _heal_ it or whatever it was.”

Margerie pauses for a moment, appraising Crowley with her eyes. Crowley tries not to squirm underneath her gaze. He’s certain that she can’t see the truth of who he is— not with his sunglasses on— but he feels like she’s not looking for that sort of information. He feels, more than anything, like she’s trying to read what’s written in the shadows of his heart.

“I would love it, Crowley, thank you.” Margerie says after a moment, and she steps forward to accept it from him. “I will gladly take any plants you choose to get rid of but there is one condition.”

“What’s that?” Crowley asks as he hands the plant over, suddenly feeling unmoored without the weight of it in his hands to anchor him down. 

“You have to come see them.” She says with a small smile. “You’re giving them a second chance by giving them to me, so make sure to come back and see how they do.”

Crowley startles, amazed at how accurately she had pinned what he was doing. He wonders if he’d really been that obvious, but then he tamps that worry down because it will just lead to him wondering what _else_ he’s that obvious about and that’s a Pandora’s Box that he doesn’t want to open— now or ever.

“Right.” Crowley says after a moment’s pause. “Seems fair enough.”

There was a moment where they just looked at each other and then Margerie gestured for him to sit. Crowley did, though he wasn’t sure why because he didn’t really have a reason for sticking around now that he’d handed the plant off. Still, he took the same seat as he had last time and watched as Margerie set the plant down on a counter off to the side and then headed to fill the tea kettle with water. Crowley went to protest but thought better of it because he knew Margerie wouldn’t hear it, so instead he slumped back and waited patiently.

It only took a moment for her to get the kettle on and then she moved back to the counter where she appeared to be making a dough of some kind. “So,” she began and Crowley didn’t like the tone of her voice. It meant she was going to pry, to ask questions, to search for information that he either didn’t have or couldn’t give. He braced himself. “Did somebody break your heart?”

“Well, I— _what?”_ Crowley shoots up in his chair, his spine the straightest it’s probably ever been as he stares at her incredulously across the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting her to ask but that was certainly nowhere even _near_ the list of potential questions. 

“I’m sorry,” She says gently, like he might break. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t ask but…” She pauses for a moment as if she’s giving Crowley the chance to back out of the conversation. He wants to, but he also wants to know how she had jumped to that conclusion from a simple plant. “It’s just— the way you look at the plant, like it’s hurt you with these spots. I just— I see that sadness in you that you mentioned last time. Call it mother’s intuition, I guess.” She glances over at him as she kneads the dough, her smile small but still genuine, maybe even a little sad itself. “You don’t have to answer me, I just want you to know that I’ll gladly listen if it’ll help.”

Crowley feels like the air has been knocked right out of his lungs and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to make of that. Fleetingly he realizes that so far he has spent every encounter with her completely caught off guard and uncertain of what to expect. That’s probably a bad sign, he reasons, but he finds her so comforting and he really believes that she won’t repeat anything he says. There’s something about her— maybe it’s her energy, the way it radiates pure _good_ and unconditional _love_. It damn near feels like standing next to Aziraphale.

“Does that work?” He asks quietly, looking down at his hands on the table before him. “Talking about it?”

“I think so.” Crowley isn’t looking up at her but he can hear her working and he appreciates her attempts at making this such a casual thing for him, her attempts to not put any pressure on him. “If you keep everything locked up inside, it’ll drag you down. Best to share the burden with someone else.”

“And you want to bear my burdens?” Crowley tries for teasing but it sounds more incredulous than anything else. If the world weren’t set to be ending in the next year, Crowley wouldn’t believe that this was happening. But everything had been unbelievable in the last ten or so years and humans never failed to surprise him.

Margerie responds in kind, her tone actually succeeding at hitting teasing. She pauses what she’s doing to come and pour him a cup of tea before retreating back towards the stove. “We’re sharing plants already, why not?”

It startles a laugh out of Crowley and he settles a bit more comfortably into the chair again. “Are you going to share your burdens with me?”

“Do you want me to?” Margerie asks, clearly caught off guard by the question.

Good, Crowley thinks, they can be on the same weird, unexpected page. “ S’only fair, wouldn’t you say?”

“You drive a hard bargain.” She pauses her kneading to look over at him and there’s a crinkle to her eyes. Crowley meets her gaze and thinks that her eyes look like melted gold from across the room and he thinks that’s fitting, somehow. Like her eyes are reflecting the kindness within. “Well, alright then. You have a deal. Now tell me about this heartbreak.”

Crowley knows he can’t tell her about Heaven— not in such clear terms, anyways. And he shouldn’t tell her about Aziraphale since that was— that was a mess of his own making. And yet he found that he _did_ want to talk about both of them.

And so, he did.

He told her that he had been loved by someone, once, and then they had turned on him and kicked him out, even if he’d never really grasped what he’d done wrong. He tells her about his plants and how he’s realized that they are a reflection of this— he even mentions how impressed he is that she figured it out after only two plants.

“Took me damn near thirty before I pieced it together.” He says with a laugh that’s not entirely mirthless. It’s more self-deprecating than anything and Margerie hears it, shooting him a look.

“Is this the love you said you’re familiar with last time?” She presses after a moment.

“You’re ruthless, d’you know that?” Crowley laughs again and this time it’s more genuine. “Can’t let a man catch a break, can you?”

“I meant it when I said you don’t have to answer,” Margerie looks at least a little contrite as she slides her most recent creation into the oven, pulling out what Crowley has since identified to be brownies. 

The entire flat smells amazing which is impressive considering that Crowley doesn’t ever feel particularly drawn to food. Margerie waits for him to say something as she does some sort of intricate dance in front of the oven, swapping pans and shuffling stuff around. Crowley watches idly for a few moments as she eventually sorts it all out and shuts the oven door with her foot, reaching over to set a new timer.

“That one might be a bit heavy for today.” He answers finally. He wants to talk about it, desperately wants to talk about it. But his feelings towards Heaven are complicated with pain and betrayal. His feelings for Aziraphale are complicated with risk and there's already too much at stake. He swallows the words down. Another time. 

“Oh, my dear.” She says, turning to look at him and Crowley feels his heartstrings plucked at the endearment. Partially just for the sake that she’s using an endearment on him and partially because there’s only one other person in all of history who has called him _my dear_. 

How Margerie continues to hit so close to home, Crowley isn’t sure. He lifts his glass up and drains it, despite the fact that it’s nearly cold at this point. He hadn’t touched it at all but felt it would be rude to leave it full.

“I should probably go.” Crowley says, shoving his lanky legs underneath him and pressing up from his spot by the table. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. You can’t be sick of me before I even begin checking in on these plants.”

“I don’t think I’ll be getting sick of you anytime soon, Crowley.” Margerie says with such un bridled warmth that Crowley thinks for a moment that he’s standing in Hell— brimstone, flame, all that. There is a reason humans believe Hell to be eternal burning after all. “But please do hold on for just one moment, I’d like to send some of these brownies home with you.”

“You don’t—” Margerie stops his protest with a single look. He sighs and props a hip against the table. “Alright, fine. I’m not much for chocolate but I have a— friend who is. He will love these.”

“Well,” Margerie says as she finishes slicing the warm brownies and settles them on some tinfoil. “Please be sure to tell me what your friend thinks. And I do hope you’ll try at least one of them. For me.”

Crowley accepts the parcel of brownies as it’s offered to him. “He’ll love them.” Crowley says with absolute certainty and a weird warmth closing his throat. “And I’m sure I will, too.”

* * *

Crowley’s late.

Well, as late as he can be for something like this. He and Aziraphale don’t have strict reservations anywhere, so it’s not like he’s at risk of actually ruining their plans, but he knows Aziraphale is waiting outside the complex for him. He’d spent too long trying to pick what to wear which, incidentally, was stupid considering all of his outfits looked nearly the same.

“Sorry,” he calls as he rushes through the front door to find Aziraphale standing there with his hands folded behind his back, looking entirely at ease. “Got, er, caught up.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Aziraphale says with that easy smile of his, turning to watch as Crowley approaches.

Crowley tries his best to look calm, to keep his pace slow and unhurried. He’s not certain it works but Aziraphale at least has the decency to not point it out if his frantic energy is palpable. He reaches Aziraphale’s side in a few quick strides. “So, given any thought to where you’d like to go?”

“Yes, actually.” Aziraphale says with that beaming smile that makes Crowley thankful for his sunglasses. “There’s a new Thai place just up the road. It’s close by and lovely weather so I thought we might walk there.”

“Sure, whatever you want, angel.” Crowley agrees automatically, happy to go anywhere as long as it has Aziraphale there. “Lead the way.”

They take off down the sidewalk together but only make it a few steps before a car door is thrown open in front of them, halting their progress. A few choice words pop to the tip of Crowley’s tongue but they die the moment Margerie steps out of the car, her eyes landing on them.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry!” She says hurriedly, shutting the door and leaning against it so that they can pass by if they want. “I didn’t mean to be in your way.”

“S’no problem.” Crowley says, resolutely not looking at Aziraphale. “We’re in no rush.”

Crowley can’t be rude or curt to Margerie, he just can’t. Not after how kind and welcoming she has been to him, not after she’s heard some of his secrets and kept them locked away— just between the two of them. He knows his kindness will fuel Aziraphale, will give him material to tease Crowley with for the rest of time— no matter how long that ends up being— but he just can’t bring himself to do it. Margerie doesn’t deserve his attitude and Aziraphale will always find something to tease Crowley about. If not this, surely it’ll be something else.

“Oh,” She perks up and smiles at him, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, did your friend enjoy those brownies?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Crowley says, gesturing towards Aziraphale. He gets the distinctive feeling that his face is red but he doesn’t waste time thinking about why. 

“You made those brownies?” Aziraphale jumps fluidly into the conversation like he knows Margerie already. “Oh, my dear, _how_ do you do it? Was there a hint of— was it cinnamon I tasted?”

“It was!” Margerie perks up immediately, stepping away from her car to properly engage them in conversation. “I’m impressed you could taste it, it was only a teaspoon in the whole batch.”

“It was _delectable_ ,” Aziraphale says, reaching forward to grab her hands earnestly. “It was just a little hint left on my palate. Oh, I daresay they hardly even lasted an evening. _The_ most delicious brownies I’ve ever tasted!”

“Oh, you’re just being kind.” Margerie is the one to turn distinctly pink this time and Crowley just watches it happen, feeling how surreal this moment is.

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale emphasizes. “I would not say such a thing lightly! You must give me your recipe, I’d love to make them!”

“Do you bake?” Margerie asks and she seems to catch Aziraphale by surprise.

He looks puzzled for a moment, like he’s not sure why he asked for a recipe that he can’t use and it makes Crowley feel at least a little better. There’s something about Margerie, he decides, that draws this happiness out of people. Maybe she’s a supernatural entity herself. (Crowley knows it’s not true, he’d be able to feel it, but she certainly seems to have some sort of superpower.)

“Well, no, actually.” Aziraphale admits after a moment, looking properly sheepish. “But perhaps I shall learn for this! Your brownies are worth the effort.”

“Perhaps Crowley could bake them for you?” Margerie suggests instead.

The world seems to screech to a halt.

Crowley knows that she doesn’t mean anything by it. There’s no way that she’s figured out that Aziraphale is the one he’s been desperately avoiding talking about. But then again— maybe she has? She’d called it mother’s intuition before and she had a strange habit for hitting the nail right on the head. Crowley looks at her desperately, but she’s simply smiling warmly at him, guilt-free. She doesn’t know what she’s implied and Crowley isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not, even though it seems like it should be obvious.

“Oh, dear me.” Aziraphale laughs, recovering from the shock of the moment far faster than Crowley. “I’m afraid he’s an even worse baker than I am. I daresay I wouldn’t survive _those_ brownies.”

“See if I ever try to make anything for you again, angel.” Crowley grumbles, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“Is he?” Margerie leans closer to Aziraphale. Or perhaps she draws him closer to her by their still connected hands, Crowley isn’t sure. All he knows is that suddenly Aziraphale and Margerie are leaning towards each other, close enough for Margerie to whisper conspiratorially, “At least he’s attractive, though, right?”

“That’s it!” Crowley cries, huffing past both of them _and_ their stupid combined hands _and_ their mocking grins. “I’m going to the Thai place. Angel, you’re welcome to join me if you wish. Otherwise, I hope you both have lovely nights.”

“Bit touchy, that one.” Margerie says fondly behind him.

Aziraphale laughs before calling after him. “Crowley, dear boy, the restaurant isn’t that way.”

Crowley makes a frustrated noise and spins on his heel, not sure when he’d gotten turned around. He supposes it was sometime around when Margerie had come to join their circle. It doesn’t matter. He stalks past them, going what is, apparently, the proper direction. 

As he passes, he hears Aziraphale’s, “It was so lovely to meet you.” 

“And you, dear.” Margerie replies before calling after Crowley’s retreating back. “Have a good evening, Crowley! I’ll see you for tea soon here!”

Crowley makes some sort of noise that’s both disgruntled and confirming their plans and continues storming off, leaving Aziraphale to catch up to him, laughing the whole way.

* * *

Crowley’s in the back of the elevator, clutching a plant to his chest when Margerie finds him. It’s distinctly reminiscent of the first time they’d really talked and she smiles at him as she steps into the elevator, her eyes falling to the plant in his hands.

“Another one for us to share?” She asks with a pointed look.

“Actually,” Crowley says and he’s not sure why the words try to stick in his throat. “Not this time.”

“Not _yet_.” Margerie corrects fondly. “It’s only a matter of time before it makes its way to me.”

“First of all,” Crowley replies affronted, “I am perfectly capable of raising plants properly and I don’t appreciate that _implication_.” Margerie laughs and it’s airy and light. “And second of all, it’s not for _me_ either. So no, you can keep your mitts off of it.”

The elevator lurches as it comes to a stop at the bottom floor, the doors sliding open. Crowley steps forward and places a hand over one of the doors to hold it open while Margerie moves into the lobby. He’d known her for a few months at this point and he didn’t like the fact that he could already see her slowing down.

“Who is it for, then?” She asks with feigned innocence.

“You’re a vulture.” Crowley remarks dryly. “It’s for Aziraphale. My— the friend you met. With the brownies.”

“Oh, is that his name? Aziraphale.” Margerie says it like she’s tasting the sweetness of it. Crowley knows the sensation of it well, his mouth forms the name with ease and a certain amount of forbidden fondness. “That’s fitting for him. He seemed rather charming.”

“He—” Crowley garbles up a few more words before sighing. “Yeah, he is.”

“First brownies and now a plant.” Margerie points out in a way that lacks any and all subtlety.

“Don’t.” Crowley warns with a pointed look. She shrugs her shoulders innocently. “He’s— he’s about as rubbish at raising plants as he is at baking. But he owns a bookshop, see, and is always talking about how it needs something living to brighten the place up. So I— this one doesn’t require a lot of tending to. Just some water occasionally.”

He expects her to make some other comment about how this all appears, but she takes pity on him instead. “What if he forgets to water it?”

Well, she _tries_ to pity him, but the answer he has to give to that still drives her point home anyways. “Well, I’m, er— I’m at his shop frequently enough that I can water it and it should stay alive.”

He sees the knowing look in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything other than, “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it greatly. That’s a lovely gift.”

“Yeah.” Crowley said helplessly because he _knows_ what it looks like and if Margerie thinks it, what is Aziraphale going to think? He’s probably being a fool, making some unwanted gesture that’s going to tip the scale too far.

“Well, better hurry along, then.” Margerie says with a kind smile and a tilt of her head. “I’m sure he’s anxiously awaiting your arrival and the chance to tell you how much he loves your gift.”

Crowley glances at her. She seems to always know what needs to be said. _Mother’s intuition_ he remembers her saying, even though he hasn’t seen or heard much about her kids since that first night. “Right, thanks.”

He vows to tell her someday that her intuition has so far been spot on with him. To his understanding, mothers love that— being told they’re right. And she’s been absolutely right on every account thus far.

* * *

Life progresses mostly as normal after that. Days go by, weeks turn into months and months fade into nearly a year in the blink of an eye, and Crowley doesn’t think too much of anything. He tries to ignore the passage of time and the metaphorical clock that’s ticking above all of their heads, but it grows more difficult with each day. He says hi to Margerie every time he sees her, slips by her place occasionally for tea and passes every plant that breaks his rules to her care. (And so what if the plants he’s passing along get more and more beautiful each time? What if there happens to be her favorite flower in there? That’s just coincidence). She takes them all with nothing more than a tut in his direction, chastising him about how he still hasn’t learned his lesson about love.

“I don’t _love_ ,” He’d said once in a vulnerable moment, the mug of coffee pressed close to his face, helping to hide his expression. Margerie had yelled at him— as close to yelling as Crowley could imagine her getting, anyways— when he’d finally confessed that he preferred coffee instead of tea. “It’s just not something I’m… capable of.”

“Oh, hush.” Margerie had waved a hand at him almost dismissively. She’d known him nearly a year at this point and still held firmly onto her convictions that he was _good_ and _kind_. Crowley, admittedly, had given her a fair share of reasons to think exactly that,but he still tried to pretend he hadn’t. It made Crowley less sick to hear— in fact, sometimes hearing her say it was his only solace— but he didn’t let that show. “You know I’ve heard too much to believe that.”

And she _had_ heard too much. It had started one night when she’d found him drunken outside of their complex, having recently stumbled home from Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley didn’t remember much of the night, but he knew Margerie had helped him up to his flat, listening to him ramble on about Aziraphale’s eyes, apparently, and the way his hair looked soft as a cloud. He’s apparently expressed a long suppressed desire to touch it and see if it was, in fact, as soft as it looked. When she’d showed up at his door the next morning with some advil and demands that he let her cook him breakfast, he’d groaned out loud and buried his head in his hands.

(He’d barely had a moment to miracle in normal cooking utensils and food before Margerie was shoving her way through the door and banging around in his kitchen, apologizing belatedly for the way that the sound must be bothering his hangover.

“How’d you know I was hungover?” He’d asked.

He was hungover, but he didn’t need to be. A simple miracle would send it scurrying, but he couldn’t do that in from of Margerie so he’d resigned to suffer for the time being.

“Oh, honey.” She said, smiling almost wickedly at him from across his kitchen, “Did you not wonder how you got home last night? Did you not wonder who you spilled your heart to about— dare I say it? Aziraphale?”

Crowley decided he liked Margerie distinctly less at that very moment. But he was impressed with her bastardly streak and by the time she finished recounting the details of the night before he was certain that he didn’t hate her at all, he hated himself.)

“You’re reading into things.” Crowley tried for dismissive, but it didn’t work particularly well. “We’re just friends.”

Of course, Margerie had a laundry list of reasons not to believe that. She never brought them up, but Crowley would catch the look in her eye when he mentioned Aziraphale, or asked for an extra serving of something to bring over to him. He’d catch the curl of her lips when she’d ask his plans for the week and he’d say that Aziraphale had already claimed some of his nights. She’d known long before he’d drunkenly ranted about Aziraphale’s beauty.

“Just friends.” She repeated with a roll of her eyes. Her attitude had certainly not diminished as she aged and Crowley admired that about her. He admired a lot about her, in fact, even though he absolutely shouldn’t.

He admired the fact that she had, in the year she’d known him, kept his kindness their little secret. She greeted him casually in the hallway but never anything more, never anything that might suggest that their acquaintanceship had turned into a friendship. He also admired the stiff upper lip she kept, steadfastly acting as if she were unbothered by the way her children didn’t come visit and rarely called. She was a terrible actress, but Crowley was a terrible actor so he figured he had no room to critique her. Plus, she graciously slid away from topics she knew he didn’t ever want to talk about, so the least he could do was offer her the same courtesy.

“Just friends.” Crowley repeated again to drive his point home. “No love, not from me. That’s why you get all the stubborn plants.”

“And if _he’s_ being stubborn?” She asked with a delicately raised eyebrow. “Do I get him, too?”

“You are wicked woman.” Crowley hid his smile behind the rim of mug, trying his hardest to keep his delight hidden. She didn’t have the same philosophical debates that he and Aziraphale had, but she was still great at conversation and even better company. “But you two would love each other. In fact, I think he might have the exact same ancient couch somewhere in his dusty old bookshop. Might even rival yours for how many layers of dust it has.”

Margerie swatted at him from across the table, making an affronted noise and Crowley drew back, laughing. “Which one of us is wicked? You foul man!”

Crowley laughs again and settles back into his seat, bracing his elbows on the table and ignoring the way Margerie glowers at him for the faux pas. They lapse into comfortable silence, the smell of the lasagna she was cooking in the oven filling the place. Crowley had grown comfortable here in the last year and he wonders if that’s okay. It’s most likely not, but very few things he does actually are so he chalks it up to another reason he’s a terrible demon and locks it away somewhere in the depths of his heart.

Plus, it doesn’t very well matter at this point. Either the world ends in flames and there’s no reason for fear, or he does something much worse than befriend a human. Something like stop Armageddon all together. In the grand scheme of things, he figures this has to be the smallest blemish on his record.

“You should tell him.” Margerie says gently from across the table.

Crowley’s never actually told her explicitly how he feels about Aziraphale, not even drunkenly, but he’s said enough incriminating stuff for her to put the pieces together. It’s not hard, honestly, for someone to figure it out if they talk to him about Aziraphale enough. He’s practically bursting with these purposely unnamed feelings, they’re going to sneak their way into conversation if they have the chance.

“No point.” Crowley says, somber. He sets down his nearly empty mug. “I already know how he feels.”

Plus, the world is on the verge of ending. His heart is the last of his concerns, he tries to convince himself. But it’s not easy to do. 

“You can never know if you don’t ask.” Margerie says but Crowley pointedly ignores it.

She changes the subject, sensing his discomfort and the growing rifts in his heart. She invites him to stay for dinner, he declines, waving to her as he slinks out the door to deal with these emotions he’s clearly doing a terrible job controlling.

* * *

Crowley throws the covers off of himself when he hears the shouting from down below. This very well may be his last chance at getting some sleep before an eternity of— well, he didn’t know _what_ , but he doubted it included restful naps in his lovely four poster bed and silk sheets.

He breaks through the front doors of the complex, still in pyjama bottoms and a loose shirt, sunglasses looking ridiculous with his messy hair, and comes to a halt when he sees Margerie there with a young woman.

“You’re being ridiculous,” the young woman yells, gesturing wildly with her hands. “And stubborn! Do you even _think_ of anyone other than yourself? What about _us_? Do you know how hard it is for us to check in on you as often as we need to?”

“I—” Margerie begins to say, but she’s cut off again. She sits on the bench outside the complex, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.

“It’s like—”

“Excuse me.” Crowley slides into the conversation with an icy outer shell, glaring the woman down through his sunglasses. “but I know you aren’t talking to Margerie like that.”

“This is a family matter.” The woman says in a voice that’s not so kindly telling Crowley to mind his own business.

Unfortunately for her, minding his own business is not something Crowley has ever mastered. “Family?” He says with a bark of ironic laughter. “You call yourself her family? Funny that I haven’t seen you in the last year.”

“Are you keeping tabs?” The woman rounds on him, attempting to square up with him but Crowley doesn’t even flinch.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He concedes. “It’s just that I have tea with her every week and I’ve certainly never seen _you_ around.”

“Crowley—” Margerie tries to cut in.

Crowley, unlike her daughter, spares her a glance and affords her the opportunity to say what she needs to say. Instead of saying anything, she simply shakes her head, indicating that it’s not worth the fight.

But oh, Crowley feels like it absolutely _is._

“Now you listen here.” He turns back to her daughter and he’s nearly snarling at this point. He catches himself at the last moment and reigns in his more demonic side, reminding himself that he’s supposed to just be a friendly human neighbor and not some sort of avenging angel. “Your mother is a treasure and I hardly think you’re equipped to know what she needs. You say it’s a hassle for you to check in on her when you need to? Last I heard, you hadn’t called her in _months_. So which is it? She doesn’t need you checking in that often, or she does? You can’t have it both ways.”

“I thought I made it clear that this was a family issue.” The woman sniffs, crossing her arms and turning her head stubbornly away.

“Oh you did.” Crowley bares his teeth in a wicked smile, “And I consider her a part of my family so you better get comfortable with me being in this conversation pretty quickly.”

“Mom—”

“Oh no,” Crowley steps to the side to stand in between Margerie and her daughter. “You don’t get to be nice to her now that you’re losing the battle.”

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment. He can see the woman running through a series of different retorts in her mind but none of them stick and Crowley is glad to see it. He takes a deep breath in, focuses. As much as he would love to settle this with an old-fashioned verbal beat down, he knows that isn’t what Margerie would want from him. He closes his eyes behind his glasses, focuses on the woman in front of him, connects with her. 

And just like that, he pours a little bit of his energy into her, bends her mind just the tiniest bit to his side of things. He opens his eyes in time to see the tension melt out of her face, to see her shoulders slump like all the fight has gone out of her.

“Your mother is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met,” He says aloud, finalizing the ideas he’s placed into her head. “She is caring and thoughtful and deserves far more love than you’ve been showing her.”

“Crowley—” Margerie says again, but this time her voice is distinctly choked with emotion. “My dear…”

Her daughter takes in a shuddering breath and then dissolves into tears, stepping around Crowley and throwing herself onto the bench next to her mom, burying her face in Margerie’s neck. “He’s right. I’m so sorry, mom. I’ve been awful to you. I’ve just, I’ve been so stressed and—”

Margerie shushes her with gentle hands on her back, running through her hair, pressing kisses to her temple. She shushes her and holds her close and suddenly there’s two crying women on the bench.

Crowley knows it’s time for him to take his leave and he feels vindicated. “Your mom is perfectly fine to stay here,” He says softly. “She has me checking in on her. Nothing will happen to her while she’s here.”

It’s a promise to them as much as it is a threat to the rest of the world. If things continued to exist, the world would know better than to threaten Margerie in any way.

“Thank you.” Margerie says tearfully, catching his hand as he walks by to head back inside and allow the women to make their peace. “You’re my family, too.”

And Crowley knows that he is.

* * *

The bookshop looks much the same as it always has. At one point in history, Aziraphale would change the books displayed in the window on a semi-regular basis as an attempts to blend in and look like a properly functioning bookshop. And then somewhere around the time Aziraphale decided he hates customers, he decided that appearances didn’t matter and he hadn’t touched the window display since.

Crowley ascends the steps with a practiced ease, hand yanking the door open before he hears a clatter and a quiet gasp from somewhere on the other side of the street. He stills, door open and exposing him to Aziraphale who was standing in the middle of the bookshop, staring at him with a questioning gaze. He ignores it, turning his head to find the source of the sound and there’s Margerie, across the street, arms too full of groceries she’s trying to shuffle into her car. She’s dangerously close to the curb and even though it’s a short drop, it could do her more damage than Crowley would like to see.

Briefly Crowley curses the world for being bold enough to defy him right to his face like this.

Without even thinking about it, he lets go of the door and hustles across the street, brain not even registering Aziraphale’s confused, “Crowley…?”

The groceries are stacked high in Margerie’s arms and she can’t even see her car properly as she struggles to find the door handle. She takes a step closer, her foot slipping off the curb and she pitches towards the street—

And directly into Crowley’s hands.

He barely catches her in time, pushing her back onto the curb and all but yanking one of the bags out of her grasp. “Margerie what are you _thinking?_ ” he hisses as she regains her balance.

“Oh, Crowley!” She smiles up at him, warmly and as if she had done nothing wrong. 

“Do you know how dangerous that is?” He presses, taking another bag out of her arms with a sharp look. “You nearly pitched into traffic!”

Margerie shrugs as she opens the door to her car now that she has enough mobility to do so. “I didn’t.”

Crowley is so frustrated, so— so _upset_ that he almost doesn’t feel the swell of fondness at the stubborn side of her.

“What if I hadn’t been here?” He chastises, and Crowley feels a familiar panic clawing up the back of his throat. “What if you’d been alone?”

 _Oh_ , he realizes at once. Those exact words were ones he’d said to Aziraphale at some point in history. He remembered it well, pacing a restless circle in front of Aziraphale and tyring to impress into him the importance of _not_ doing reckless things and getting discorporated. He’d been frantic, then, the metallic taste of fear still slick on his tongue as he’d swallowed down all the words that he wanted to say. _What if you’d left me? What would I do without you?_

“Crowley.” Margerie says again, her one empty hand coming to rest on one of his forearms as she looked up at him. She had soft brown eyes that he thinks matches what her hair color had been at one point in life. “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t do much to quell the war of feelings inside of him.

Aziraphale had apologized, too. And then he’d ended up in a Bastille about to be beheaded, and then he’d been caught in a church in Germany in the middle of a bombing, and then he’d—

Suffice it to say that he hadn’t learned his lesson.

“Take _care_ of yourself.” Crowley chastises as sternly as he possibly can, but he knows Margerie sees right through him.

She opens her mouth to say something, but suddenly her eyes track over his shoulders and she drops her voice just enough to say. “Blue eyes and blonde curls coming our way. Should I—?”

Before Crowley can even react, Aziraphale is at their side, eyes scanning over the situation. “Everyone alright, here?”

“Oh, yes, quite.” Margerie says, sweet as sugar. “I’m afraid I was being a little careless, trying to handle too many groceries on my own, you see. I couldn’t see where the curb was and I slipped off the edge. But this lovely gentleman came over to help me so I’m quite alright now.”

“Did he?” Aziraphale asks, and there’s a question written into his gaze as he settles it on Crowley. Crowley steadfastly ignores it. “How kind of him.”

“ _Aziraphale_.” Crowley says sharply in warning, certainly not missing the way Aziraphale’s lips twist into a pleased smile.

“Well, let’s get you loaded up then, shall we, my dear?” Aziraphale presses on like nothing happened, taking one of the bags from Crowley’s arms and moving around Margerie to load them into her backseat. 

Crowley passes the next bag over once Aziraphale’s arms are empty, unwilling to be caught doing anything further that could be considered nice. It only takes a moment before everything is settled inside the car. While Aziraphale is busy arranging the bags, Crowley shoots Margerie his sternest expression. She smiles back at him in return, the wicked kind that nearly makes Crowley groan from where he’s standing along the curb still. And then Aziraphale is out of the car and offering an elbow to Margerie and their silent conversation is forced to end. 

“Oh, aren’t you just so charming?” Margerie says to Aziraphale as he takes her arm and escorts her around to the drivers side of her car. “And so dashing, too! Quite a handsome young man.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flame red at the unexpected compliment, but he takes it in stride far better than Crowley would. “Well, thank you. Though I’d hardly say I’m a _young_ man.”

Crowley hides his bark of a laugh behind a cough, but Aziraphale catches it and shoots him a wry smile just the same.

“You know, I don’t know if you remember me—” Margerie begins and Crowley considers turning on his heel and simply stalking away.

“I’d hardly be capable of forgetting those brownies,” Aziraphale says warmly and Crowley can’t really be surprised. He’s known since he properly met Margerie that she and Aziraphale would get along well.

“Oh, you flatter me!” She cries, placing a hand over her chest, pressing it into her heart. Crowley glowers at her. “You know, Crowley here has told me that you own a bookshop. I’m guessing this must be it?”

“Ah, he talks about me, does he?” Aziraphale teases, glancing over his shoulder at Crowley who is glaring so darkly at this point that he’d give the midnight sky a run for its money. Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale has nearly six-thousands years of practice of ignoring his expressions _and_ pushing his buttons and he’s doing a remarkable job of both at the moment. “But yes, that is my shop. It’s regrettably closed at the moment, though.”

“I suppose I’ll have to come back some other time then.” Margerie glances between them with a raised eyebrow and Crowley once again thinks that she’s about as subtle as a bull. He’s going to have to have a conversation with her about it.

“Yes, lovely, you can come back some other time.” Crowley growls, stepping forward and pulling open her driver’s door. “But I’m afraid your groceries might expire if you don’t get home soon, Margerie.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says with his eyebrows pulled together. “Groceries don’t go bad that quickly—”

“He’s quite right.” Margerie says and for a fleeting moment she looks contrite. Crowley supposes it’s the most he’s going to get. “Lots of perishable stuff in those bags. I really ought to be going.”

“Well, it was lovely to see you again.” Aziraphale says with one more worried glance cast at Crowley. “And I’ll look forward to seeing you in my shop.”

Margerie goes into her car willingly, thanking both of them profusely again. Aziraphale offers for them to go with her to help unload her car but she promises that she will be much more diligent about emptying it, only taking in one bag at a time. It seems to sate Aziraphale, who moves to stand next to Crowley as Margerie closes her door and bids them a final farewell. They watch her go in silence for a moment and then, once she’s out of sight, Crowley takes off towards the bookshop again, hands tucked deep in his pockets.

“Should I ask about that?” Aziraphale says as he catches up to Crowley’s side easily, despite Crowley’s long legs and loping stride. 

“No.” Crowley says, but it sounds more defeated than stern. “You’re both bastards, that’s the only part that matters.”

His heart is still pounding against his chest, the familiar fear banging against his ribs. Somewhere mixed in there is frustration with Margerie, with himself, with his stupid feelings. It hadn’t turned out bad, Crowley reminds himself. Not now with Margerie, not in the past with Aziraphale. It had never turned out bad because he had always been there. And he’s realizing suddenly that he now has two people he needs to be there for— he just hopes they won’t ever need him at the same time.

“Right.” Aziraphale says and it’s that tone he and Margerie share— the one that indicates that he’s letting it go for Crowley’s comfort, but his curiosity is still there. “Well then, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Was going to tempt you to a spot of dinner.” Crowley mumbles as they reach the other side of the street, stopping abruptly next to the Bentley.

“Was?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Still going to,” Crowley clarifies. “If you’re willing.”

“Oh, my dear boy, I’m willing.” Aziraphale smiles and reaches for the door handle of the Bentley.

* * *

“Crowley!” 

Crowley’s nearly out the door of the complex when he hears his name. He stops, hand on the handle and turns to see Margerie rushing across the lobby towards him.

“Oh, good, I’m glad I caught you in time.” She says as she approaches him, smiling fondly up at him.

Crowley raises an eyebrow at her in question. He’s headed off to meet Aziraphale for a walk through the park. Aziraphale had locked himself up in his bookshop for nearly the last week, losing track of time entirely, so Crowley had gently suggested that some fresh air might do him some good. _No idea how much longer we’ll have fresh air to breathe_ , he’d said and then Aziraphale had chastised him for being so callous. It had sounded like a good idea at the time, but now that Crowley was a moment away from stepping outside he was realizing just how cold it actually was. The warm air of summer was giving way to the chilly biting breezes of autumn and he hadn’t a proper jacket.

It was something he could’ve bought or even miracled over the years, but he’d never bothered to. More often than not Crowley spent his autumns and winters bundled up under the covers of his bed, catching up on the sleep that he’d missed. 

“Honestly.” Margerie says instead of immediately answering his unspoken question. “Don’t you own any suitable clothing?”

“I look very stylish.” Crowley retorts, even though he knows she is absolutely right. 

Margerie rolls her eyes fondly at him, reaching into her bag and suddenly producing a deep, wine red bundle of fabric. “Here,” she says after a moment, unraveling it to reveal a knitted scarf. “At least wear this.” Crowley opens his mouth to say something and Margerie reaches up to loop it around his neck before he can say no. “It’s exactly your color.”

Crowley stands obligingly still as she loops it around his neck a second time and then tucks the loose ends of it into his coat, adjusting the collar so it all sits a little neater. Whatever yarn she’d used to knit it was as soft as a feather— and Crowley knew first hand how soft feathers were. It was exactly the right length, looping around his neck enough times to create bulk that he could use to cover his mouth and nose if he wanted to with still enough length to stay tucked into his jacket as he moved around.

Crowley looked down at it, feeling a familiar fondness well up in the back of his throat and strangle his words. “Thank you.”

Margerie smiled at him warmly. “Can’t have you freezing to death.” She mumbles as she steps back, clasping her hands together in front of her. “You’re my only child that comes to visit.”

“I thought your daughter—”

“Yes,” Margerie says, “But you’re still a better child than her.”

Crowley makes a noise that is startled but happy and Margerie ducks her head a little, almost as if embarrassed. Crowley, obviously, has no idea what having a mother _actually_ feels like, but he thinks this might be close. He thinks of the times Margerie has dropped leftovers on his doorstep, of the time she gave him a “sick kit”, as she’d called it.

(“I don’t get sick,” Crowley had insisted. He understood her worry, he _hadn’t_ left his flat in nearly four days, but that hardly meant anything. Time barely existed to him and honestly, four days was just long enough to be a worthwhile nap.

“Nonsense.” Margerie had waved him off, handing him the bag she was clutching. “Everyone gets sick sometimes. And I find it hard to believe you have any medicine in the house.”

“I’m not _that_ ill-prepared.” Crowley scoffed, but he took the bag anyways, glancing inside. A series of over-the-counter medicines and kleenex boxes filled to the brim and he thought he might’ve seen a thermometer somewhere in the mix.

“Well?” She prompted after a moment. “ _Did_ you have any of that in the house?”

“How do you manage to be so rude when doing something so kind?” Crowley had fired back and Margerie had laughed, taking it as the confirmation that it was of her suspicions.

Of course he didn’t have any of this in his flat. He really _didn’t_ get sick— that was human stuff. But he couldn’t very well tell her that, so he thanked her and promised her that he’d call her if he needed anything. He waited a few days just for appearances and then made a point to leave his flat so she didn’t worry about him any further. She’d caught him in the hallway and told him it was good to see him back to his _old self_. Crowley had just smiled).

“You can’t get rid of me.” Crowley said after a moment and Margerie’s smile was so fond it nearly bowled him right over. “No matter how often you try to poison me with your cooking.”

“Oh, you!” She smacked him on the arm fondly before ushering him out the door. Crowley thanked her properly for the scarf as he went, casting one last look at her over his shoulder.

As he walked towards St. James park, he thought back to the year and a half he’d known Margerie. Time was a funny thing, especially for a demon. It was even funnier now that they were closing in on the eleventh birthday of the antichrist. Crowley and Aziraphale had been released from the Dowling’s employment a few years ago and had more or less spent the time just waiting. They checked in on Warlock from time-to-time, of course, as they were meant to do, but otherwise it was a matter of just biding time and waiting for the child’s birthday to see what would happen.

Nearly eleven years ago when Crowley had brought the antichrist to Earth, he’d wanted to stop Armageddon. Now, eleven years later and with a second friend to his name, Crowley was more determined than ever.

Fuck the Great Plan.

“Hello, dear.” Aziraphale greeted as Crowley approached, bundled up appropriately for the weather. “Lovely to see you.”

“Found your way out of your book piles, did you?” Crowley asked with a smile as he dropped down onto the bench next to Aziraphale. “I’m impressed.”

“I was in the middle of a _very_ good series.” Aziraphale answered with a wistful smile that told Crowley that he was remembering it fondly. What he didn’t say, what hung unspoken in the air between them, was that he didn’t know how much longer he’d have to read his favorite books and he weas trying to fit in what he could. “Simply lost track of time.”

“Lost track of a whole week there, angel.” Crowley replied, but he wasn’t at all put out by it. 

“Yes, I did, rather.” Aziraphale agrees with a bit of a grimace. “I was thrilled to hear from you when you called.”

There’s a warmth that blooms across Crowley’s cheeks at the words and he ducks his face into the scarf Margerie had made him. The scarf and his glasses combined cover nearly his entire face and Crowley thinks he could get used to this. He’d be an unstoppable enigma if he dressed like this all the time— nobody would be able to read into his intentions or guess his next move.

Which, he knows, isn’t true. Aziraphale would see right through the cover and into the heart of whatever Crowley was doing. Aziraphale could hear his plans in the simple tone of his voice and had shut down his ideas on more than one occasion over the phone before Crowley had even had a chance to propose said idea. But that was alright because Aziraphale didn’t stop his big ideas, just the small ones. Their arrangement meant that Aziraphale could see right through Crowley’s new face covering defense and he would do nothing more than roll his eyes at whatever he found on the other side.

“Shall we?” Crowley asks after a moment of silence, unsure how to address what Aziraphale had said to him. He gestures towards the park as a whole and Aziraphale understands perfectly, the way he always does.

They walk side-by-side through the park, chatting idly for awhile. They pause to allow people to pass them, stepping to the side rather than breaking apart to make it easier. Crowley tries not to think about it, tries not to read into it. He does an okay job holding the thoughts off, but he knows they’ll be back later.

“So,” Aziraphale says mildly as they turn a corner. “Can I ask about the scarf?”

“Eh, yeah.” Crowley turns his face resolutely in the other direction, mumbling more into the scarf than anything else, “My neighbor made it for me.”

Of course, Aziraphale hears him because Aziraphale always hears him. “Your neighbor?” He echoes, and he sounds completely delighted with the turn of events. “It wouldn’t happen to be that woman you helped a few weeks ago, would it? The one who makes the brownies? She’s your _neighbor_?”

Crowley stops in his tracks, finally turning to look up at Aziraphale. He knows his face is red from being caught but he hopes Aziraphale assumes it’s just the cold air. “Er—?” Crowley sighs. “Yeah, she is. So what? It’s not a big deal.”

“Crowley, my dear.” Aziraphale says and his eyes are so soft as he takes in what’s visible of Crowley’s expression, so full of adoration that Crowley feels like he may just discorporate on the spot. “You nearly stopped traffic just to get to her side. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you move that fast.”

A long, low groan rips out of Crowley’s throat and he throws his head back, letting his eyes slip shut. “Brilliant.”

“Come now,” Aziraphale nudges him gently with his elbow. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you do ni—” A sharp look from Crowley cuts that word off before it can be said into the air between them. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you do similar things before. You do things like that for me all the time.”

“Yeah and that’s bad enough!” Crowley replies. “The last thing I need is to be doing it for _two_ people. Demon can get in a lot of trouble for that.”

“You haven’t gotten in trouble yet.” Aziraphale points out unhelpfully. “And I daresay helping an angel is a bit riskier than helping a human.”

“Can we just—” Crowley grinds up a few words but when he spits them out, they’re not nearly coherent and they don’t sound anything like a sentence. Aziraphale doesn’t even blink, entirely used to it at this point. And Crowley doesn’t want that to make a well of fondness swell inside of him, but it does. He takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. But she did make this scarf for me and it’s bloody cold out so I figured I should wear it.”

“It suits you.” Aziraphale says, moving along fluidly with the changing pace of the conversation the way he always has. “It’s exactly your color.”

“That’s what she told me when she gave it to me.” Crowley offers and he sees the way Aziraphale tries to stifle his smile. “You’d like her, angel. You both have a lot in common— old and stuffy.”

“I see. Well, I hope I get another chance to spend some time with her. I’m still waiting for her to show up in my shop.” Aziraphale says and there’s that twist to his smile that Crowley dreads because it means Aziraphale is about to make a fatal blow to his heart. He’s right. “Seems like you have a type, then, doesn’t it?”

“ _Angel_.” Crowley chastises. “I invited you out here to figure out what we’re going to do for Warlock’s birthday party not for— for _this!”_

Aziraphale takes pity on him, laughing as he sets their pace again. “Alright, fair enough. But do tell your neighbor that the scarf is very dashing on you. I’m sure she’d appreciate the feedback.”

Crowley is more determined than ever to stop the end of the world.

* * *

The birthday party is a disaster, Warlock is the wrong boy and the end of the world is suddenly only hours away. Crowley and Aziraphale— okay, _Aziraphale—_ somehow manage to find the right boy, the bookshop burns somewhere in there and suddenly Crowley is racing around town because holy _fuck_ the world is _actually_ about to end. He’s pretty sure he flat out murdered Ligur but he doesn’t waste much thought on it. 

It’s only when Crowley is screeching away from the pub, miraculously sober and with a destination in mind that he realizes that he has one last thing he needs to do. He jerks the wheel sharply and heads back towards his flat, the sudden need to see Margerie undeniable.

He flies out of the Bentley— which he had parked haphazardly, halfway on the sidewalk— and through the doors, taking the stairs because he can’t bring himself to wait for the elevator. He takes them two at a time and then flings himself out of the stairwell on her floor, collapsing into her door and pounding incessantly.

Margerie opens the door, clearly alarmed. “Wh— Crowley?”

“Margerie.” He says frantically, pulling himself away from the door before he tumbles through it. “Listen, I can’t explain anything to you properly right now. I wish I could but you just— I need you to _trust me_ , okay?”

“Okay.” She says with absolutely no argument, no hesitation.

“You are one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” Crowley says. “One of the only friends I’ve ever had. And I just wanted— I need to thank you.”

“You don’t thank people for being your friend, Crowley. It’s a gift freely given.” She answers after a moment, clearly alarmed but dutifully not asking whatever questions she has. 

“Not to me it isn’t. And I can’t— I can’t say any more than that but if this all goes pear-shaped—” He stops, stumbles over a few words, turns to look at her. “You were right, all this time. I love him. And I—” He groans and drops his head into his hands. “I don’t want this to be goodbye. But if it is, I just needed you to know that. You were right. Moms like hearing that, don’t they? That they’re right? You’ve had me pegged from the beginning.”

She smiles fondly at him but her lower lip wobbles like she can sense the severity of the situation. “You’re not as hard to read as you think.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Crowley as he reaches for her and pulls her close, crushing her into a hug. “Thank you.” he murmurs again.

She squeezes him back briefly before stepping out of his embrace. “You’re in a rush.” She says and it’s not a question. “Go. And when you get back you can tell me more about all the ways I was right.”

Crowley laughs again, his throat constricted with more emotions that a demon is equipped to deal with. “I’ll start making a list.” 

And then he turns and rushes out of there to, hopefully, save the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He said what?” Margerie couldn’t stop the affronted tone. Crowley started at her indignation and lifted his head to look at her again, making some sort of noise that was supposed to be a question. “Well, he had a reason, didn’t he? He must’ve had a good reason because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way he teases you.”
> 
> “He—” Crowley started a sentence and then dropped it, seeming to decide on a different way to go. That sentence begins and ends before he gets all the way through a word, too, and he lets out a frustrated sigh.
> 
> Margerie takes pity on him and presses through his jumbled words. “You must know he’s in love with you.”
> 
> \--
> 
> In which Crowley has feelings, and Margerie realizes they're both idiots who need a little help along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues to get wildly out of control. It was supposed to be something sweet and fun and now this chapter has a bit of hurt/comfort and Margerie is knee deep in the mess of a relationship that Aziraphale and Crowley have. Still, I had fun writing this and I hope you guys have fun reading it and that Margerie continues to hold a special place in your hearts. <3

For a few days, everything is a little weird.

It’s not just Margerie who feels this way, either. There are reports around the world of mass hallucinations and people losing their memories without any explanation why. Compared to some of the stories she hears, she finds herself lucky. The last thing she remembers with any amount of clarity is Crowley crushing her into his chest in a bone-breaking hug. She’d been able to feel the tremble of his fingers as he’d splayed them out across her back in a desperate attempt to stave off whatever was coming. He’d been frantic, panicked and it had set her heart aching in her chest. 

Crowley had a way of doing that— making her heart ache for him. 

It had started that day she’d stepped into the elevator and found him staring forlornly at the plant in his arms, like it was what he deserved but not what he wanted. He was looking down at the plant like it had betrayed him, carving out a piece of his heart in some crude manner and leaving him there to mend the remnants. He’d looked so _sad_ , clutching the beautiful and verdant plant against his chest and she hadn’t been able to take it. She hadn’t expected much, hadn’t really had any plans other than to try and get him to smile. He’d been nothing but unfailingly polite to her previous to that and she figured the least she could do was spread a little cheer.

She didn’t expect to befriend him, to accept him as the son she never had. She never expected to laugh with him, to tease him, to see the vulnerabilities he tried— and failed— to hide. She didn’t expect him to allow her glimpses into his shadowed heart, to let her peek behind the veil. She also didn’t expect him to be the kindest person she’d ever met. He made a particular point about _not_ being kind, but he was, to the very core of his being. It, more than anything else, was his defining characteristic. 

Margerie was grateful for all of it though— so grateful she wasn’t sure she could put it in words. Having Crowley around had given her life a sort of purpose that it had been lacking for some time. She _liked_ taking care of people, liked looking after them and Crowley, bless him, needed somebody to do that for him. He would never admit it and Margerie would never say it to him— she could just _imagine_ his horrified face if she dared utter those words, could see the way he’d scramble for some thin excuse to hide behind— but there was a hole in his heart that needed healing. And, as she’d gotten to know him, gotten to glimpse behind the facade he clutched to so tightly, Margerie had realized that there had been a hole that needed healing in _her_ heart, too.

Which was exactly why it had been so painful when he’d given her what could only be considered a goodbye. She wasn’t ready to let go of him, to part with their closeness, their teasing, his spot at her table for weekly tea— or well, weekly coffee in his case. That was _his_ chair now. He even had his own mug!

(It was a simple red thing with tiny little horns sticking out from either side of the handle. They were small horns, barely there lest they be a hazard for stabbing him in the eyes. It had reminded her of him inexplicably— though she thinks it was the color and the way this mug was a cute take on something that was meant to be so scary. He had laughed when he’d seen it, a deep belly kind of laugh that she’d never heard from him before or since that moment. His entire face had lit up like she’d just handed him the best thing he’d ever seen and she didn’t get it, not entirely, but she wasn’t going to question what had clearly turned out to be a good thing.)

Margerie had fretted for a few days after the goodbye, she thinks, looking out the window in desperate hope of seeing his Bentley parked there. It had been, once, but when she’d gone up to his flat and knocked, nobody had answered. She didn’t remember too much besides that, just the general feeling of unease and unhappiness. The days had sort of slipped away around her, some meld of cooling weather and bright sunshine, like the weather was trying desperately to make up for something that nobody could quite place. It was doing a spectacular job, as far as she was concerned. 

And then— and then she had heard a knock at her door and she’d nearly tripped over her area rug in her attempt to reach it before he had a chance to knock again. 

“Crowley!” She’d said as she threw the door open, recognizing the distinctive knocking pattern the moment she’d heard it. “You’re alright! You are, aren’t you?”

Sure enough, Crowley stood on the other side of the door, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He smiled almost sheepishly down at Margerie and even though she couldn’t see his eyes behind those ridiculous sunglasses, she could tell how tired he was. It was written into the lines of his expression, it settled onto his shoulders like a weight. He looked one gentle breeze away from collapsing entirely and Margerie felt her panic rise back up her throat.

“I’m alright.” Crowley assured her and his voice, at least, sounded steady. “Was just a busy for few days, is all. S’all sorted now, though, nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, my dear, that’s where you’re wrong.” Margerie said fondly, taking the flowers and ushering him into her flat. “I have _you_ to worry about. Look at you! Have you slept? Have you eaten? Have—”

“I’m _fine_ , Margerie.” Crowley emphasized again with a pointed glance. It did absolutely nothing to deter her. “ ‘m just a bit tired, is all. Stop worrying.”

“I absolutely will not.” She replied and Crowley huffed out a gentle laugh at her words, following her obligingly into the kitchen and sliding into his seat. 

He’d never fit perfectly under her table— his long legs always poked out at awkward angles and his elbows seemed to jut out like wings— but he always looked at ease there despite that. He looked like he was comfortable, dropping his head onto his crossed arms as he surveyed her from across the kitchen. It was such an overwhelming relief to see him there, despite his clear exhaustion.

Margerie had more or less— and certainly against her will— lost touch with her daughters over the years. (Her relationship with her oldest had improved ever since Crowley had stood up for her but even then, they lived far apart so it had turned into nothing more than frequent phone calls. She was thankful for it nonetheless). And then Crowley had showed up, frowning at a plant, and Margerie had felt less alone. And _then_ he had showed up at her flat and hugged her like he’d never see her again and fear had gripped her, wrapped around her heart because she couldn’t— she _couldn’t_ lose him, too. She didn’t think she’d be able to survive it if he was taken away from her.

“Sorry for disappearing like that.” Crowley mumbled, as if he were reading her thoughts. “Things got a bit—” he garbled up some words in a way that was distinctly his own. At first Margerie had been concerned by it but she had since learned to read around the mangled syllables and piece together the ultimate point and now it was just endearing. “Weird.”

“Weird?” She echoed, a little incredulously. He smiled at her in a way that was more of a grimace than anything else, and she opened her mouth to tell him just how worried she was when a thought occurred to her. “What’s your first name?”

“My— _what?_ ” Crowley lifted his head off of the table to look at her a little more evenly. “Where did that come from?”

When they had first met, Crowley had only offered his surname as an introduction, which was proper manners and perfectly fine by Margerie. As they’d gotten closer, he’d instructed her to drop the ‘Mr.’ but had never supplied any more of his name. It had never occurred to her until this very moment when her mom instincts were running hot and her need to scold him for whatever reckless thing he had undoubtedly done was running even hotter. 

“Just answer.” Margerie says simply and she offers him what is meant to be an encouraging smile.

He really looks drained, like he hasn’t slept a moment since she last saw him. He looks one second away from slinking out of the chair and turning into some sort of angular puddle on the floor. Her heart aches for him as she tries to puzzle out how best to help him. She can’t give him coffee because it’s too late in the night and the caffeine would surely keep him up even later, which was the exact opposite of what he needed, but he’s not a particular fan of tea— something it took him _weeks_ to tell her.

(“Do you, er, have something else?” He’d asked tentatively as she placed the kettle on the stove.

Margerie recognized that tone immediately— one she had heard from her children plenty of times. It was the tone that meant he was about to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. 

“Chamomile not your favorite?” She’d asked, turning to look at him and suppressing the urge to place a hand on her hip. 

The way he looked back at her implied that he could see her desire to do it. She hoped he appreciated the effort she was putting into holding back. “Tea isn’t really my thing.” He finally mumbled, looking down at the table as if that could spare him somehow. “Just— in general.”

She took a deep breath. “What is your thing, then, dear?”

“Coffee?” He’d offered weakly, glancing up at her as if hopeful that he was going to get out of this without a scolding.

He wasn’t.

But she was glad he told her nonetheless and went out the very next day to pick up his favorite coffee and she had never run out of it since.)

“Right.” Crowley replied and he sounded distinctly suspicious. It would’ve made Margerie smile if she weren’t so worried about him. As it were, she did feel the edges of her mouth tick up a smidge begrudgingly. “It’s Anthony.”

“Anthony,” Margerie tried out, looking him over as she said it. She had started cutting fresh ends on the flowers Crowley had bought her— he had this remarkable ability to pick _the best_ flowers, they always lasted for _weeks!—_ but had gotten lost somewhere along the way, turning her whole body to stare at him instead of continuing her endeavor. “What a nice name. It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Crowley replied, but his eyebrows were steadily rising above his glasses and towards his hairline as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did.

“Well, then.” Margerie settled into the fear and the worry she had been grappling with since that day nearly a week ago. She pulled it up around her and allowed it to steel her spine as she crossed her arms over her chest. “ _Anthony Crowley_.” She said in her sternest voice and Crowley flinched in his seat. “You came here and all but said goodbye to me. You left and I was _worried sick_ about you. I didn’t know if something had happened to you! You didn’t call! You didn’t show back up at your flat! And then you show up here, looking like something the cat dragged in, wasting away to nothingness, shadows under your eyes _so dark_ that I can see them below your ridiculous glasses and you have the audacity to say that things got _weird_?”

“Things _did_ get weird.” Crowley tried, settling back into his chair.

He was an odd man, that much had been apparent to Margerie from the moment she’d stopped at his flat to introduce herself. He’d opened the door just enough to peer through, friendly enough, but completely on guard. Still, he said hi to her every time he saw her and once he held the door open for her as she hauled her groceries inside. And then he frowned at a plant, offered it to her and somehow ended up at her table, sitting at angles that didn’t seem possible and yet, she couldn’t imagine him sitting any differently. He never took his sunglasses off, she never asked. He clearly had some deep crater in his heart that he was determined to ignore, but he let her glimpse it from time to time, casual statements in passing that she had to piece together after he’d left. 

She still didn’t have a full picture, but she understood the emotions that were hidden in that dark depth, could see the way it cracked him apart. And the truth was, she didn’t _need_ to know the story because the pain that came with it was raw enough for her to understand without knowing the cause. It clearly ate away at him, festering— it had turned into his version of leaf spots, marring what was an otherwise beautiful creature. And just like she’d done with the plants he’d given her, she was determined to heal him, too.

Margerie opened her mouth to say something back when Crowley surprised her an added, so quietly that she nearly didn’t hear, “I thought I lost Aziraphale.”

“Oh.” She said, clutching a hand against her chest, the wind completely gone out of her sails. There was such raw, wrecked emotion in those few words that Margerie nearly felt like crying just hearing them. “Is he alright?”

“He is.” Crowley confirmed, but his gaze was fixed determinedly in his lap. “He’s fine. I’m fine. Everyone and everything is ultimately fine.”

“Crowley,” Margerie abandoned the flowers on the counter and crossed the room to him at once, pulling him against her in an embrace that he clearly didn’t see coming. He was so much taller than her that they were practically the same height now that he was sitting down and she was able to crush his face into her shoulder and stroke his hair affectionately. “You might be physically fine but— but your _heart_.”

“Don’t have one of those,” Crowley mumbled into her shoulder, but his arms wound back around her and he returned the hug. His half of the hug was less fierce than hers, but she could live with that.

“Nonsense.” She chided gently, her other hand rubbing soothing circles into his lower back. “I remember what you said before you left. You said you loved him.” Crowley made a strangled noise of protest and went to pull away but she held him firm. “You can’t love someone if you don’t have a heart, Crowley.”

“I didn’t— I never—”

“You did.” She said it simply. It wasn’t meant to put demand on him, it didn’t ask for an explanation. It was a simple statement between the two of them, a shared knowledge, a light in the darkness. It was out in the open now and even if they never spoke of it again, they both knew it existed and maybe that would be comfort enough.

Crowley sagged in his chair and Margerie released him from the hug. He threw his head back, resting it along the top of the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. His glasses rode up a little, but his eyes were closed underneath. Margerie stepped back to give him space.

“I asked him to run off with me.” Crowley said after a long silence and, although she wouldn’t have thought it possible, he sounded _more_ wrecked than he had before. As he spoke, it sounded like he was tearing his heart open to bare each word, to show her what was hidden inside. It sounded like it _hurt_ him to say the words out loud, but she suspected that it would hurt worse to keep them inside. “Everything was going wrong and— and I was going to lose him and I just— I didn’t want—” he sighed and dropped his hands, his sunglasses falling back into their normal place. “It doesn’t matter, he said no anyways.”

“He said _what_?” Margerie couldn’t stop the affronted tone. Crowley started at her indignation and lifted his head to look at her again, making some sort of noise that was supposed to be a question. “Well, he had a reason, didn’t he? He must’ve had a good reason because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And the way he _teases_ you.”

“He—” Crowley started a sentence and then dropped it, seeming to decide on a different way to go. That sentence begins and ends before he gets all the way through a word, too, and he lets out a frustrated sigh.

Margerie takes pity on him and presses through his jumbled words. “You must know he’s in love with you.”

At that, Crowley nearly jumps out of his chair.

Margerie presses on. “I know you like to pretend you’re some big bad… _demon_ or— or something, but you’re not, Crowley. You wear your heart on your sleeve. And so does he! Anyone looking at the two of you could see how you feel about each other.”

“I don’t _act_ like a demon, I _am_ one,” Crowley says with a sort of seriousness and amusement that Margerie brushes off with a roll of the eyes. “And he doesn’t—”

“He _does_.” 

Crowley groaned and dropped his head back again. “Can we not talk about this? It’s ridiculous. You weren’t supposed to remember what I said and it doesn’t even matter because he made his side of it pretty fucking clear. If he— _if he—_ he wouldn’t have said no.”

Margerie watched as Crowley tensed, presumably waiting for her to chastise him about his language. She didn’t, just like she never had before. He was a grown man and could choose whatever words he liked. Plus, Margerie was prone to a few choice words now and again and hassling him would be nothing more than the pot calling the kettle black. She could refute his argument again, could pull out the laundry list of examples she had already gleaned from seeing them together and lay them out in front of him as she tried to convince him, but that wasn’t what he needed. If he couldn’t see it himself, he wasn’t going to see it if she pointed it out. He wasn’t going to see it if it hit him over the head. And, based on what Margerie had seen, it had certainly tried to.

Instead of saying anything back, Margerie just sighed. This was another chip on Crowley’s shoulder, another crack in his heart, one more thing to add to the growing pile of reasons he kept himself locked so tightly away from everyone else. 

And she hated it.

She hated seeing him hurt, but she also hated how unexpected this was. She _had_ seen the way Aziraphale looked at Crowley— like he hung the bloody stars! He looked at Crowley like he’d been standing right there when the world was created, like he was the first being Aziraphale had ever seen and been impressed by. The way Aziraphale had looked at Crowley was nothing short of adoration (and maybe some exasperated fondness) and Margerie just couldn’t believe that any of that had been fake. She _knew_ he loved Crowley, just like she had known Crowley loved Aziraphale long before he’d admitted it. She didn’t know what Aziraphale had said or why, but she wasn’t going to give up on it that easily. One of them had to hold out that hope and Crowley had made it clear that it wasn’t going to be him.

“Come on, dear.” She said after a long pause, resigning this conversation to another day, if Crowley would allow it. “Off to the couch. I’ll bring you some cocoa.”

Crowley pulled a face, like cocoa reminded him of something almost unpleasant, but he didn’t protest. He likely knew that he had no right to protest since Margerie had dropped the topic so easily. So, he hauled his lanky body up and stalked off to the other room while Margerie began rummaging around for the cocoa mix.

She left the flowers untouched, promising them that she’d come back for them as soon as she could and busied herself with making two steaming mugs of cocoa. By the time she was done, Crowley had managed to topple over on the couch, arms sticking out at weird angles and head barely making it on one of the pillows. He looked up blearily at her as she approached, clearly already on the precipe of sleep.

“Aziraphale liked the scarf you made me.” He mumbled, words slurred with a tired edge. “Said it was my color, just like you did. You two’d get along.”

“Well now, I hardly think I could get along with someone who broke your heart.” She said gently, setting the mugs down and reaching for a blanket instead. She draped it gently over his form and couldn’t stifle a fond smile as he seemed to relax further into the couch. 

It was true, she _couldn’t_ get along with someone who broke his heart, and Aziraphale had clearly done that. In fact, judging by Crowley’s reaction, he’d done it more than once. But Margerie _wanted_ to get along with Aziraphale because he seemed like quite the kind gentleman himself, which meant that she had no choice but to get Aziraphale’s help in _healing_ Crowley’s heart. (And give him a stern lecture about what would happen if he ever dared to break it again. Not even someone as gentle looking as him would be spared from Margerie’s wrath if she had reason to bestow it upon him).

Crowley shifted under the blanket, pulling his limbs back so that he resembled something more human. “He didn’t mean to.” He said, and Margerie was certain that he’d never admit to a heartbreak out loud if he hadn’t been so tired. Even though they both knew his heart was broken, it hurt to hear him say it out loud. “An’ s’fine anyways.” He pressed on, but she was certain his eyes were closed and his breathing was slowing. “I’d let him do it again s’long as I get to have him ‘round.”

“Oh, dear.” She reached out to brush the hair away from his face and gently remove his sunglasses, folding them and setting them on the table in front of him, next to his abandoned cocoa mug. Crowley shifted again, flipping onto his back nuzzling further into the couch. 

Margerie watched him with a warm smile. Time healed all things.

Time (and a little nudging) would heal this, too.

* * *

Everything was wrong.

Well, strictly speaking, _nothing_ was wrong. But even _that_ was wrong.

Armageddon had been averted, the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell had decided to fuck off for the foreseeable future. By all accounts, Crowley should be ecstatic. He’d slept for nearly twelve hours on Margerie’s couch— something that wasn’t particularly long for him, since his record was nearly a century— but was long for a standard human. Margerie had fretted over him the next morning, checking his temperature and making sure he was fine.

He _was_ fine. Physically, at least.

But bloody hell, Margerie had hit the nail right on the head when she’d talked about his _heart_. Stupid, useless, treacherous thing. 

The blasted thing was still beating away in his chest, feeling like it was cracked right down the middle and getting closer to splitting completely with each passing second. It was just there, drumming a sad song against his ribcage, crying out for a love that it lost— a love that it never had any claim to. Not even in the beginning.

Crowley had gone home after he’d left Margerie’s and spent about three days holed up in his flat, pacing circles and groaning out loud to himself. It was stupid, it was blasphemous. It wasn’t like this was the first time in the last six-thousand years that Aziraphale had rebuffed him. Hardly! Aziraphale turned him down at least once a century— with the exception of the one Crowley had slept through, of course— and that frequency had only gone up in recent years. The more time they spent together, the more chances Aziraphale had to deny Crowley.

Part of him wants to think Aziraphale had been right all those years— angel, demon, not really a recipe for success in theory. But in _practice_ , as it turns out, it _was_ a recipe for success. It was the only reason they were alive. It was the only reason he’d been able to lay on Margerie’s couch, half asleep, admitting to his broken heart. (And bloody hell was he mad at himself for that.) It was the only fucking reason he hadn’t given up on the entire damn world when it had threatened to go down in flames.

(Well, that and Margerie. Because Crowley is fully preparing to have a second shake down with Death sometime in the future. Crowley had defeated him once— or at least been on the team that had defeated him, anyways— and he was damn sure going to do it again if Death thought it had any right to take Margerie from him).

The short version was that they were better together. That had been proven in no uncertain terms over the last few weeks. But it apparently didn’t mean anything to Aziraphale and for some reason, that hit him differently this time. For some reason, Crowley couldn’t stomach that the way he had in the past. He knew it was because now Aziraphale had no excuses to hide behind, no veil of “heaven wouldn’t like this” to shroud him. If he didn’t want to spend time with Crowley now it was simply because he just didn’t want to spend time with Crowley. And that opened up a new kind of ache in his heart that Crowley wasn’t familiar with dealing with.

Somewhere in those three days, Crowley found himself _actually_ talking to his plants. It had been the whole reason he’d bought them in the first place— some new-age shit that said talking to plants was supposed to help with emotional coping. A load of bull that was. All it had done was turn Crowley into some power-tripping asshole who was trying to exact vengeance for the wrongs of his past. Certainly not the sort of thing they’d write about in a magazine, Crowley understands, but he still feels like there should be a warning or something.

_Warning: talking to plants only works if you aren’t emotionally unstable and have less than thirty chips on your shoulder. Otherwise, it’s not recommended as it’ll send you further into the abysmal darkness that’s found at the center of your damaged heart._

But somewhere in the last year-ish, Crowley had found his edges softening and he suddenly thought that talking to his plants, actually _talking_ to them— not _yelling_ , or _threatening_ , or _belittling_ , but just _talking—_ might achieve the desired effect of helping him sort out the mess he was housing inside. The plants had been terrified, at first, standing stick-straight and refusing to move as he growled his way through his words. But at some point, the plants had started leaning closer to him, as if they were hanging on his every word, waiting for more. As if they wanted to _know_ him instead of _fear_ him, like there was something more to him than his threats.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” He bemoans, spritzing the plant nearest him, even though he thinks he’s probably already done that. He’d lost track already of who he had and had not watered and the plants wouldn’t dare correct him. They wouldn’t dare die of over-watering, either, though. “Who asks someone to run away with them? Of course he said no. We’ve been friends for six-thousand years, but he’s drawn a clear boundary and here I was just— just _erasing_ it!”

With a huff, Crowley dropped his head back onto his neck, squeezing his eyes shut. He hated it— he hated it _so much_. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see Aziraphale’s face, his pinched expression as he told Crowley with no uncertainty that they weren’t friends. And maybe they weren’t. Maybe he’d been reading too much into everything the last six-thousand years. Maybe he’d just been blinded by his own feelings, convinced that he’d made it clear where he stood. Maybe he just _wanted_ so _desperately_ to believe that Aziraphale only ever took a step away because he wanted to take a step closer but knew that he couldn’t. Surely if he _actually_ wanted to leave, he would’ve made a clean and permanent cut.

But he didn’t. 

He came back. Over and over again. He came back and gave Crowley the holy water. He came back and dragged Crowley to Tadfield airbase. He came back and took a bath in blasted holy water to keep Crowley alive—

Or maybe he’d only done it so Crowley would keep him alive.

Crowley groaned long and loud and slammed a fist into the wall next to the door. He hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale since they’d parted ways a day after their trials. They’d had a lovely lunch and he’d all but confessed his feelings right then and there, staring at Aziraphale as they enjoyed a meal that they shouldn't be having. They’d had a lovely lunch and then he’d taken Aziraphale back to the shop and Aziraphale had bid him a casual farewell and parted ways as if this was an ordinary lunch, as if they hadn’t just nearly lost each other. Aziraphale clearly didn’t feel the same desperate need to keep them together that Crowley felt and he would respect that, even if it tore him apart. He’d gone straight from the bookshop to Margerie’s because he couldn’t imagine being alone after that, and then he’d promptly shut himself up in his flat and refused to talk to anyone.

“What was I expecting him to say? Yes?” Crowley hung his head low, pressing his forehead into the wall next to the door. He could feel his sunglasses slipping down his nose but they, too, would never be bold enough to disobey him by falling off completely. 

Not that it mattered if they did— he was alone.

Completely and utterly alone.

Aziraphale was content to go back to living life as they had been for their entire history— distant, save for a few encounters here and there. And now— now Crowley didn’t even have Hell to fall back on. Which wasn’t a bad thing, not at all, but it still made him feel abandoned. 

He had Margerie, of course, and he knew she would be there for him. Hell, if she knew how he were feeling right now, she’d be kicking down his door with some lasagna and a fresh baked caked. She’d probably even come armed with blankets because somehow, in her mind, that would fix things. Crowley had Margerie, but he didn’t. Not really. Because he couldn’t tell her what had happened, couldn’t tell her _why_ his heart was truly broken. He could only hedge around the issues at hand and piece together enough of the vague facts to paint a sort of overview of the situation that would hopefully help her understand. 

But then again, how could she truly understand?

_He_ hardly even understood. There was no way to put into words the feelings of being hopelessly in love with someone for all time and then having them turn their back on you in the most dire situation.

“He came back.” Crowley mumbles, more to the wall than to the plants at this point. “That should mean something to me, shouldn’t it? He came back.”

Crowley feels the gentle brush of a leaf against his shoulder when he knows that no leaves had been near him before and his heart cracks a little further in his chest. How _pathetic_. The plants he’s spent years terrorizing are now _sympathizing_ with him and trying to _comfort_ him. He’s really sunk so low that he can’t even scare his plants anymore.

“Is this what I’ve become?” He pushes off the wall and the plant doesn’t immediately retreat. Crowley glances over at it, but he’s not mad like he expected to be. “Some lovesick idiot who can’t handle being apart from him? Some fool who’s going to let him keep breaking my heart just so I can see him again?”

The truth of it settles like a brick in the pit of Crowley’s stomach.

He hasn’t _just_ become this lovesick idiot, he’s always been him.

Aziraphale has pushed him away time and time again, has redrawn the line between them in darker and darker marker and Crowley has continued to push it, continued to hand his heart over and pick up the pieces later. He endured Aziraphale telling him that they were _fraternizing_ and then still showed up to save him from the Nazis. And he was going to endure this, too, showing up at Aziraphale’s shop in a few weeks with a bottle of wine and an excuse about where he’s been.

And Aziraphale is going to take the excuse at face value, ask some polite but vague questions about whatever lie they both know he’s told and things will press on, paved on the jagged edges of Crowley’s stupid heart.

“Things could change.” He lifts the spritzer again— one that had been miraculously replaced in his flat after Adam had reset the world— directing it towards a plant he’s fairly certain he hasn’t watered yet. “We don’t have sides anymore. He could—” a sigh, broken and defeated, from the depths of his bones. “He won’t, though, will he? He won’t.”

Crowley feels it with a shaky sort of certainty in his bones. Aziraphale won’t change— not anytime soon, anyways. Not without a swift kick in the ass. And Crowley is _not_ about to be the one to give him that. Not when it would mean trying to convince Aziraphale to be with him after six-thousand years of distinctly _not_ being with him. Aziraphale doesn’t like change, has never liked change if his wardrobe is any sort of evidence. Except for the fact that he no longer has to send memos to head office and answer to their ridiculous demands, things in Aziraphale’s life won’t be any different.

He’ll still be running his shop, chasing out customers, enjoying his favorite meals. He’ll be able to go for walks in the park, to whittle away days at a time lost in a good book without any hesitation. As far as Crowley can tell— and he knows Aziraphale _very_ well after six-thousand years, both out of necessity and interest— he is about to be living his ideal life. 

And his ideal life doesn’t include any changes between him and Crowley.

But, Crowley supposes, that means that _his_ world won’t change much, either. And that, at least, means that Aziraphale won’t leave completely. He just won’t get any closer. And dear— _someone_ , Crowley wants him to get closer.

He thinks fleetingly of knocking down Margerie’s door and confessing all of this to her, but he knows he can’t. He already has his plants pitying him, he doesn’t need Margerie to do it, too. 

“If you tell anyone,” Crowley hisses, turning to glare at his plants. They pull away from him, but they don’t tremble the way they used to, and Crowley feels like dropping down into another century-long nap at the thought of it. He would, if it didn’t guarantee Margerie waking him up after a couple of days with another care package of medicine. “I will shred all of you to bits. You hear me? You’ll be such fine shards that they won’t even make _mulch_ out of you.”

* * *

The tail ends of summer had faded completely and been replaced by the crisp air of autumn, biting at exposed skin and painting cheeks red. It wasn’t too cool yet to avoid being outdoors completely— in fact, autumn was Margerie’s favorite season. 

On such a beautiful afternoon, it wasn’t uncommon to find Margerie walking along the trails of St. James Park, hands tucked in the pockets of her jacket as she strolls casually, observing the colored leaves. She would catch snippets of conversations as she went— dinner plans, weather chat, occasionally a heartfelt confession— but nothing ever really stuck. Mostly it just floated around her, tickling at her senses, a small taste of something she would never know the full story of. She liked it that way, though. It gave her something to imagine later, it allowed her to fill in the blanks and to make the scenario into whatever she wanted it to be. 

But then something did catch her full attention— something that she would still never know the full story of. But this one, at least, she knew enough about.

She slowed to a stop by one of the trees, bracing her hand against the rough bark as she peered across the small expanse of park to find two figures huddled together along the edge of the pond, tossing peas in for the ducks. If the sound of his laugh hadn’t been enough, the shock of red hair and the scarf woven around his neck would be more than enough to give Crowley away.

He wasn’t feeding any of the ducks. Both of his hands were braced on the railing before him as he leaned all of his weight into them, peering straight ahead. But even though he didn’t seem to be looking to his right, Margerie knew that’s where his entire attention was focused. It was the small things that gave it away: the tilt of his head, the twist of his shoulders, the way he was leaning just the tiniest bit closer. It wouldn’t seem like much to anyone— if anyone even noticed the small things— but it was enough for Margerie. Her heart ached so deeply in his chest that she felt like it was being pulled apart. She could only imagine that Crowley’s heart was feeling similar.

Of course, she recognized Aziraphale. She didn’t need to read Crowley’s body language to know who was standing next to him, dressed in a similarly old fashioned outfit as he’d been the other times she’d met him, his blond curls catching the sunlight like a halo. 

_Angel_ , she thinks, and then she remembers the fact that Crowley had called him that without thinking, as if it had been a habit. Maybe this is why.

“Sent them packing, did you?” Crowley asks and there’s an unnamed undercurrent to it that gives Margerie’s heartstrings a tug as she listens to it, remembering his delirious, sleep-deprived confession from a few weeks ago, remembering the way he’d been strung out and miserable, the way he said he wouldn’t give up.

“Oh, dear boy,” Aziraphale huffs and throws a few more peas into the water. “You should have _seen_ their faces. They did not see it coming!”

“ ‘course they didn’t,” Crowley said and he finally turned his head to appraise Aziraphale. There was a hint of a smile catching at the edge of his mouth and even from this distance, Margerie could see him trying to fight it down. She wonders briefly how they got here, which one of them invited the other out. She can imagine Crowley’s restless pacing around his flat as he tried to work up the nerve to see Aziraphale again. “You hardly look the sort to have it out with customers in the middle of the shop.”

Aziraphale sighs again and Margerie can see the way he finally sags his shoulders. “But I _am_ exactly that sort.”

“I know that.” Crowley says, turning his gaze back out towards the water. “But nobody else does.”

And maybe Margerie is imaging it, but she swears Aziraphale shifts a step closer, sets his hand down on the rail so close to Crowley’s that their pinkies nearly brush. She swears that he’s suddenly leaning towards Crowley, tilting his head _just so_. Crowley, of course, doesn’t seem to notice, his gaze still focused somewhere in the distance, his hand never shifting to close that suddenly small gap between them. He continues to stare out at the water while Aziraphale stares at him and Margerie thinks, not for the first time, that she can see something that he can’t. Something that, apparently, _neither_ of them can see. 

Margerie is somewhere lost in these thoughts, lost in the attempt to connect the dots into something more coherent, when she hears Aziraphale speak again, a soft and wistful edge to his voice. “Yes, well, you’ve always known me best.”

Margerie feels herself go soft in her spot at the exact same moment that she sees Crowley’s shoulders jump for his ears. He makes one of his startled sounds and Aziraphale laughs warmly, resting his hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder for just a moment before pulling away. Almost impossibly, Crowley seems to go stiffer underneath the brief contact and Margerie sees the way Aziraphale’s smile seems to fall at the edges. It’s a barely-there change but it’s enough to show Margerie everything she needs to know.

“Shall we head to lunch?” Aziraphale asks, brushing past the moment of sudden awkwardness with practiced ease, like he’s done it millions of times in the past. Knowing Crowley, Margerie finds it incredibly likely that he has. “It’s getting a bit nippy out and I must say, I’m rather cold.”

“ ‘course.” Crowley replies, prying his fingers off of the rail and turning to fall in step with Aziraphale. “You should wear a scarf.”

“I daresay I wouldn’t pull it off as well as you do.” Aziraphale says and Margerie swears the red on his cheeks darkens the tiniest bit. It’s hard to see around the scarf, the glasses, and his shoulders that haven’t relaxed even a little bit, but Margerie is confident it’s there. “But you’re quite right, I really ought to.”

She hustles around the tree as they come closer, slipping into idle conversation that doesn’t matter to her much as the pass by. Margerie watches them go, watches the way Aziraphale pointedly clasps his hands behind his back, the way Crowley shoves his hands deep in his pockets as if they’re both trying to keep a respectable distance between them, as if they’re both fighting against some invisible force that’s drawing them together. She watches the measured way they take steps, perfectly in sync with each other, close enough to murmur quiet words between them but _just_ far enough apart to not suggest anything more than casual friends. To anyone else, it would just look like friends walking alongside each other. But Margerie, she sees the gap for what it is: a deliberate line they’re both afraid to cross. It occurs to her then that she had been exactly right from the beginning.

She doesn’t know what reason Aziraphale had for refusing to run off with Crowley— doesn’t even know the context of the question since Crowley has steadfastly refused to veer anywhere even _close_ to that topic since then— but she can feel with absolute certainty in her gut that he had good intentions. She can see it in the way Aziraphale pauses as Crowley’s attention is drawn away briefly. She can feel it in the way Aziraphale smooths down the ends of Crowley’s scarf after the wind catches at it, pulling it out from his jacket. Every second she spends watching the two of them, she can see it, she can feel it in the very core of her bones.

Aziraphale loves Crowley, too. Crowley just doesn’t see it.

The knowledge of it made her heart ache anew as she watched them turn a corner a disappear from sight finally. Crowley would not be thrilled with her for intervening, but if it gave him the happy ending he deserved, she could handle his ire. With a determination she hadn’t felt in awhile, Margerie turned and headed towards her favorite craft store, an idea already forming in her mind.

* * *

Things had, for better or worse, returned to normal.

Well— Crowley was back to his weekly tea (or coffee) with Margerie and he and Aziraphale continued to meet for the occasional dinner or night in with far more wine than any human could drink. His plants still didn’t have any respect for him, but Crowley found that he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. If it were possible— and Crowley wouldn’t have said it were possible out of pure stubbornness, except that he had seen it happen himself— the plants were even greener than before. they almost seemed to glow now, as if from the inside out, like there was something new feeding the that hadn’t been there before.

Crowley tried his hardest not to remember Margerie’s words when he’d first met her but he knew it was a losing battle. He wouldn’t say that he was giving his plants _love_ , because, well, demon. He didn’t do that sort of thing. But ever since they had found out that he did have at least _one_ feeling, they seemed to reach for him instead of away from him and everything about them seemed to flourish in a way they hadn’t before. 

Sometimes he wondered if he, too, were just a plant in need of the right kind of love. Would he glow from the inside out? He thinks he probably would.

And then he promptly wipes that train of thought clean off the tracks, decimating it so that there’s no possible hope for it to return.

“Are you staying for dinner tonight?” Margerie asks as he slides his cup of coffee across the table at him.

“I—” Crowley begins to answer but his phone rings from its spot on the table between them, lighting up with a picture of Aziraphale. Crowley purposely ignores Margerie’s knowing smile. “Hold on.”

Crowley snags the phone and lifts it up to his ear. Aziraphale begins rambling before Crowley can even give any sort of greeting, likely tipped off by the lack of ringing suddenly. “Crowley? Oh, _Crowley_. I have had _the_ worst day. Do you have a moment?”

Crowley glanced over at Margerie, certain she could hear Aziraphale’s words clearly. She nodded at him with a smile, making herself scarce at the table by pulling ingredients out of the fridge and beginning to prep dinner— enough portions for two people, by the looks of it. And Crowley was planning on staying for dinner anyways but he recognizes her actions for what they are— a demand for information. She’s not going to let him out of here until he cracks his heart fully open and spills whatever is on the inside. He doesn’t think she’s ready for the mess— _he’s_ certainly not ready for it. But each day he spends in this new version of the world, Crowley feels the walls he spent six-thousand years hiding behind weakening. And truthfully, they weren’t very strong to begin wtih— not where Aziraphale was concerned, at least. 

They’ve mercifully avoided talking about Aziraphale all together since the world hadn’t ended, but it wasn’t an easy feat to accomplish. Margerie certainly tried her hardest, “casually” dropping his name into conversation whenever she possibly could. Crowley was running out of conversation segues that would divert her from whatever line of questioning she decided on. He knew his luck of keeping her at bay was going to have to come to an end eventually, though.

“Er, yeah. I’ve got time. Is everything okay, angel?” Despite Margerie’s distance, Crowley still feels too exposed. There was a distinct difference between telling her about whatever happened and having her hear it herself. The first he could— and would, he suspected— deal with. The second was too much. So, he shoots her a look before pressing up and out of his chair, sliding out onto Margerie’s balcony and closing the door behind him. “Are you alright?”

“I had to kick someone out of my store today.” Aziraphale says, and he sounds unreasonably distraught for something he’s done plenty of times in history. Something he’s done plenty of times in recent memory, even. “Crowley he took— he took my books with him! They’re gone! Volumes of them! He must’ve snuck them out somehow and now— now they’re _gone!_ ”

“He _stole_ them?” Crowley asks, and he’s about two seconds away from marching out of Margerie’s flat and tracking this person down himself. His snake head hasn’t seen the light of day in awhile and this guy seems like the perfect victim to bring it back out against. “The bastard—”

“Well,” Aziraphale cuts in and there’s a tiny bit of a sniffle on his end that nearly cracks Crowley right down the middle. Underneath that, though, Crowley hears the telltale _snap_ of Aziraphale performing a miracle and he realizes suddenly that he knows Aziraphale’s next words before he has a chance to say them. “They _were_ gone. I’ve gotten them back now. A minor miracle, but—”

“But he did steal them?” Crowley clarified, realizing how tightly his hand was gripping the railing suddenly and peeling his fingers off one by one. “Do you know who he is? You just have to tell me and I’ll— he’ll learn a lesson, let’s say that.”

“Oh dear boy, you don’t have to do that for me.” Aziraphale’s voice sounds muffled, like he’s speaking through a pocket square that he’s using to dab at his face. Crowley can imagine it perfectly and he thinks he’s moments away from being a pile of dust on the balcony, one breeze away from ceasing to exist entirely. “I just needed to talk to you. I appreciate your anger, but I feel better having just heard your voice.”

With every ounce of strength Crowley has, he tries to tamp down the flame of hope growing in his chest. “Do you need me to come over? Keep you company? Make sure the rest of your stock is still there? Maybe even scare off a few customers?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Aziraphale, as it turns out, is far more effective at extinguishing any hope Crowley feels. He’s acutely aware of the _exact_ moment that the candle burns out, just a thin stream of smoke in place of what used to be a bright light. “I couldn’t ask that of you. You’ve already done more than enough for me.”

“Right.” Crowley says, because there’s nothing else to say. Nothing that doesn’t give away his swiftly broken heart, anyways. “Well then. Good luck with the rest of your night.”

If Aziraphale notices anything off in Crowley’s tone, he doesn’t get a chance to say it. Crowley pulls his phone away from his hear and ends the call, shoving it back in his pocket with undue ferocity. Then he grips the railing in front of him with both hands, hunching his shoulders and hanging his head, wondering how many times he’s going to have to go through this. Every time he pieces himself back together, he feels like he gets it a little wrong, like one too many sharp corners are sticking out. He feels like the pieces don’t align quite right, like he doesn’t fit back into himself the way he’s supposed to.

Every time he had to rebuild himself after a heartbreak, he feels like he comes out the other side just a little bit different than before.

“Are you coming back in?” Crowley hears Margerie’s voice through the glass door a moment before he hears the door being slid open. “Dinner’s in the oven. I can switch your coffee for some wine, if you’d prefer?”

And as stupid as it sounds— as utterly ridiculous and _unfair_ as it is— Crowley can’t accept her offer because drinking wine and getting into deep discussions is a thing he does with _Aziraphale_. It feels like betraying him, somehow. 

Because somehow, after everything, every rebuff, every refusal, every stab straight through his heart, Crowley feels a sense of loyalty to Aziraphale.

God sure did love her cruel jokes.

“Coffee will be fine, thanks.” Crowley says and his voice sounds like shards of glass. It _feels_ like shards of glass, scratching his throat and cutting his tongue as he tries to form them into something coherent. “I’ll be right in.”

Margerie waits for a moment before sighing and that sound alone seems to reflect everything in Crowley’s heart. It somehow also gives him enough courage to stack his body back into a semi-upright position and trudge back indoors, the warmth of the inside of Margerie’s flat hitting him as soon as he steps through the door. It should be comforting, but it’s almost suffocating. He feels the weight of the heat settle on top of him, prying his broken edges further apart, making him feel like his not-quite-right soul is about to splinter again under the weight of it. 

Carefully, he trudges into the kitchen and flops back down into his designated chair at Margerie’s table, propping an elbow on the table and his head in his hand, turning an expectant gaze on Margerie. He knows she’s going to ask— whether outright or in a way she thinks is discreet (it’s not)— so he steels himself for it.

Margerie, at least, tries to give him the freedom to bring it up. She glances at him occasionally, her eyebrows knitted together in concern, but she doesn’t outright ask. It weighs heavy in the air between the two of them, a crackling sensation of something unacknowledged. Crowley is perfectly fine to continue ignoring it, to continue pretending that it absolutely doesn’t exist. He’s good at that— fucking spectacular, with more than enough practice. He’s spent _centuries_ ignoring the thing that hung heavy in the air between him and Aziraphale, artfully moving around it as if it weren’t there at all. He’d lied about it, given it many false names, looked right through it and forged on ahead. He could certainly do that now.

But he knew Margerie couldn’t.

And he couldn’t fault her for that because her concern was coming from a place of love. He was still getting used to accepting love, but he’d grown to be able to recognize it and respect it and to understand that it was something Margerie needed, too. So for her sake, he couldn’t just turn his back on the questions waiting for answers, no matter how badly he didn’t want to breathe life to those answers. He couldn’t turn a familiar blind eye to the uncertainty in the room, even if he desperately wanted to. Part of him was afraid he didn’t have answers for her questions. The other part of him was afraid of the answers he _did_ have.

“Aziraphale had someone steal some of the books form his shop today.” Crowley begins with a heavy sigh that carries the weight of six-thousand years. It’s a sigh that comes from the very depths of his bones, that tugs a little on his soul as it goes. “He’s quite attached to his books. Really rather terrible at running a business, as it were.”

“Oh dear,” Margerie sounds genuinely upset for him and Crowley allows himself a moment to admire her for her ability to feel so strongly about so many things at once. He’s fairly certain he would implode if he tried to do it. He’s not planning on finding out. “Was he able to get them back?”

“He was.”

“That’s good.” Margerie nods as if in confirmation of her own statement. “I don’t understand people who can do such terrible things like that. And to such nice people like him.”

Crowley makes some sort of humming sound in agreement and closes his eyes behind his glasses. He can still feel Margerie staring at him from across the kitchen where she had taken up post standing by the oven no doubt just to continue to give him his space. Crowley appreciates the way she tries to respect his boundaries and even the times she tries to push them— or even plows straight through them entirely. He wouldn’t say that, though he suspects she can see it in the edge of his exasperated look.

She clears her throat and Crowley opens his eyes again, bracing himself for what’s coming next. “And you’re that upset over books?”

He can’t stop the uptick that happens at the corners of his lips at the roundabout way of phrasing the question. “I offered to come over and keep him company or help or— or _something_.” He groans, dropping his head out of his hand and onto the table. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. He said no anyways.”

“Does he do that a lot?” Crowley can hear the undertone in her question, can hear how hard she’s trying to keep her voice level and unassuming. “Say no?”

The question is benign in meaning and it’s not even like Crowley didn’t know it was coming. But somehow, it still hits like a dagger to the heart, like a reminder of six-thousand years of nos. It hits Crowley right in that one angel-shaped weak spot that he can’t ever seem to cover up. The one that seems to constantly be weeping, bleeding emotion that he doesn’t want to even _have_ , let alone make public. 

“More often than I’d like him to.” Crowley mumbles into the wood of the table, but he knows Margerie hears him. Or maybe she doesn’t, she just predicts his answer. It’s entirely possible, he thinks. When it comes to Aziraphale, he’s essentially nothing but an open book of useless yearning, He knows that, he hates that, but he doesn’t seem to be able to stop that. It’s more frustrating than nearly anything else. “He has his reasons, though.”

Crowley expects Margerie to push, to ask for his reasons, to demand explanation. He anticipates her asking for more examples so that she can analyze them from top to bottom and come up with some formula for his excuses, some way to read into the depths of what he says. He expects her to give him some long-winded explanation for what she thinks he means with his word choice and how it proves her idea of Aziraphale’s feelings. He’s already drawing up a list of examples that he can explain to her simply when she speaks, and catches him entirely off guard.

“There’s no good reason for hurting someone, knowingly or not.”

“ _What_?” Crowley snaps his head up so fast he nearly gets whiplash. If his sunglasses didn’t know better, they would’ve gone flying off of his face at the motion.

Margerie isn’t looking at him, which is unnerving enough to put Crowley on edge. It’s not even that what she said was _wrong_ , it was just unexpected. Her gaze is fixed on the table before him, her hands wringing together in front of her as she pieces together how she wants to say whatever it is that’s on her mind. There’s a strange set to her jaw that Crowley doesn’t realize, like she’s biting back one word for every word she thinks, like she’s choking back a completely different thought that she wants to say instead. Finally, she takes a deep breath and smooths her hands down the apron she’s wearing as if it’s some sort of coat of armor that’s going to give her the courage to push on. 

It has to be a bad sign, Crowley knows. Margerie has never once hesitated to just say whatever shes thinking, to drag Crowley through the mud affectionately or to tease him mercilessly for something he’s done. She has never had to take the time to _think_ and _plan_ her words and Crowley isn’t sure his already brittle heart will be able to handle whatever justification she gives for that question.

“I know you love him.” She begins and it is _not_ a good start. Crowley sucks in a breath. “But if he keeps hurting you and pushing you away…” She pauses and they still aren’t looking at each other. Crowley is staring at the legs of the chair he’s sitting on where they meet the ground, trying to remind himself that this moment is real and actually happening. “I know you said you’d let him keep breaking your heart as long as you got to have him around, but Crowley, you don’t deserve that. You need to tell him how you feel, give him a chance to say his side of things. And if he loves you back, great! But if he doesn’t… you have to move on. You can’t keep letting him hurt you, Crowley. I can see how badly he’s damaged you, you know?”

“He hasn’t—” Crowley scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, fine, he has, a bit. But it’s not his _fault_. I can’t— I can’t _explain it_. But he’s never meant any of it. I think he’s just oblivious and rather old-fashioned.”

“Breaking people’s hearts wasn’t cool in the olden days, either, Crowley.” Margerie admonishes with a stern look, seeing right through his facade.

“Listen.” Crowley heaves another sigh as he considers whether or not he’s actually going to do this. He doesn’t _want_ to, but he can’t bear to let Margerie think bad about Aziraphale, especially not on his account. So, he reaches into the depth of his heart and pulls out the only thing that’s ever been kept there. “He’s wonderful. He’s charming and, when he’s happy, he does this little wiggle—” Crowley groans and tries to regain his train of thought. “He’s kind and he always tries to do the right thing. He puts others before himself and sometimes that’s included me. A lot of times, he’s put others in front of _both_ of us. But when he does stuff like this he— he doesn’t mean it negatively. He’s always trying to do what he thinks is right, whether or not it actually is right. He tries to please as many people as possible. It’s my own fault for getting caught up like this.”

“Nobody can control their heart.” Margerie cuts in, reaching for the oven as the timer goes off. “And honestly, if I hadn’t seen you hurt by him, I would think you two’d be perfect together. In fact, despite seeing you like this, I _still_ think you two’d be perfect together.”

“That’s the problem.” Crowley growls, turning his head away. “We probably would be. But none of it matters because he doesn’t feel the same and I’m perfectly fine to never talk about it ever again.”

“You’re not.” Margerie says and it’s not a question at all, just a simple statement of fact. Crowley hates the fact that she’s right. “And are you _certain_ he doesn’t feel the same way? Because I’m not.”

_No_ , Crowley thinks immediately. He’s ninety-nine percent certain, but there’s the one percent of him that remembers Aziraphale giving him holy water, remembers Aziraphale coming back for him after being discorporated. There’s one percent of him that remembers Aziraphale saying _‘oh well let me tempt you…_ ’, that thinks of all the times Aziraphale had sat there moaning around a bite of food that he isn’t supposed to be indulging in. It’s the tiniest shred of doubt, the smallest sliver of hope, but Crowley had held on to it in the darkest of times, clinging to it like a life raft and he finds himself reaching for the familiarity of it now.

But he can’t say any of that to Margerie. And he doesn’t really want to have to keep explaining his broken heart over and over again, doesn’t want to have to keep justifying why he goes back if his hope keeps getting crushed. It’s easier this way, easier to let her think he accepts his fate.

If only he did actually accept his fate. Fickle human hearts.

“Yes,” He says. “I am.”

* * *

The bell above the door jingles as she enters.

Margerie clutches her bag close to her chest as she walks further into the store, turning slowly to observe her surroundings. Quite frankly, the shop is absolutely beautiful, if a little bit of a precarious trap. There are stacks of books on the ends of multiple bookshelves that look one gentle gust of wind away from toppling. The shelves themselves are full to the brim and there’s furniture scattered all throughout, though none of it is occupied. The shop itself is empty, save for her, and Margerie doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

“Hello, may I—” Margerie turns at the greeting to see Aziraphale looping his way out from some of the shelves, a few volumes clutched against his chest as if he’d been in the middle of doing something with them. “Margerie! What a lovely surprise, I was wondering when I’d finally get to see you again!”

“I hope it’s alright that I’m dropping in,” Margerie smiles warmly at him and is graced with a beaming smile in return.

“More than!” Aziraphale places the books down on the shelf next to him and Margerie understands at once how all these piles came into being. “Please, do come in. Do you have time? I could make us some tea.”

“I would love that, if it’s not too much trouble for you.” Before she’s even finished speaking, Aziraphale is taking off towards the back of the shop, weaving expertly around the cluttered items. She follows after him, but at a slower place. She’s not nearly as practiced at this sort of navigation as he is.

They reach the back room of the shop that appears distinctly cozy and lived in. It’s quaint and very charming and, Margerie realizes with quite the start, exactly her taste. She thinks back to Crowley’s snide remarks about her and Aziraphale sharing a similar decorating taste and is loathe to admit that he was, in fact, quite right. There are many pieces in his collection that she would love to have in her flat— beautiful antiques that look exceptionally well cared for. 

“Do you drink tea?” Aziraphale seems to catch himself and pause right before a second doorway that appears to lead to a kitchen. He glances over his shoulder as he continues, but he doesn’t quite meet her eyes and Margerie doesn’t miss the significance of it. “I also have coffee, if you’d prefer.”

“You don’t look much like a coffee drinker.” Margerie says with an innocent smile. It’s certainly a pointed statement, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that. She’s willing to bet that she could guess with absolute certainty what type of coffee Aziraphale has in his kitchen, nestled up against his tea bags and maybe even buried under a pile of books. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiles a little, something small and fond that seems to come from the very depths of his heart. “You’re quite right, I’m not much into coffee myself. But I’ve found it’s worth keeping in the shop for— special guests.”

“ _Special_ guests?” Margerie repeats with deliberate emphasis on the first word and a cheeky grin.

Aziraphale finally does meet her eyes and she’s certain that she’s not imagining the pink tint to his cheeks this time. She schools her smile into something softer, something a bit more knowing and she sees it hit home in Aziraphale’s heart.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze. “Right, well, do you have a tea preference? I have plenty of varieties.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.” Margerie says, “I’ve never met a tea I didn’t like.”

“Please, have a seat.” Aziraphale gestures to the two chairs and the sofa that occupy the back area of the shop and Margerie obliges, sliding into the one closest to her as Aziraphale finally crosses into the kitchen and goes about setting a kettle on the stove.

The chair is well worn and broken in so that it shifts around Margerie, trying to suck her right into the heart of it as she settles her weight onto it. It’s comfortable, though— dangerously so. The longer she sits there looking around the back of the shop, the more unlikely it becomes that she’ll be able to get out of it. The couch across from her is the first thing to catch her attention as she really takes in her surroundings, the gentle sound of Aziraphale humming to himself a delicate background noise. The couch in question looks equally well-loved and has two separate but matching blankets draped over the back of it in opposite color schemes. 

Margerie steadfastly refuses to jump to conclusions, but she can’t stifle the small smile at the sight of it. Forcing her eyes away, she takes in the rest of the back room and there, on the window sill next to the desk is the plant she’d seen Crowley holding, the one he had said he was going to bring to Aziraphale’s shop. Even from this distance she can see that it is thriving— the leaves are a beautiful vibrant green and the buds look as if they’ll be opening any day, despite the season.

Before she can focus on anything else, Aziraphale is back, pressing a warm mug into her hands. Margerie takes it with a thank you and settles back into her seat a little further, clutching the mug close to her chest to chase off the chill of the fall.

“So,” Aziraphale says, and it’s utterly kind to its very core, absolutely no assumptions whatsoever— the exact opposite of Crowley who had been suspicious and guarded the first few times she’d met him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?”

“Oh!” Margerie shoots forward in her seat, delicately transferring the hold of her mug into one hand as she reaches for her bag that she had set on the floor when she’d first sat down. She slides her free hand in, fingers closing around the fabric. “I made this for you and I wanted to deliver it in person! I mean, I know I could’ve asked Crowley to give it to you, but…”

With no further preamble, Margerie holds out the blue scarf she had made him. It’s matching Crowley’s in every way except the color. (She wouldn’t say it was intentional that they matched, but it absolutely was. She’d grinned to herself the entire time she’d crocheted it).

Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the sight of it and he sets his mug down entirely to reach out and take it from her, unfolding it and marveling at the softness against his fingers. “You made this for me?”

“Well, Crowley said that you liked the one I made him. And— I mean, it _is_ fall, and it’s going to be getting even colder soon so I just thought…” It was strange, Margerie realized, the way she felt the need to explain herself to him. She didn’t ever feel that need with Crowley.

Part of it, she knows, is because she knows Crowley so well. It’s easy to heckle him, to rile him up. She knows what to expect when she pushes his buttons and she damn sure knows exactly where those buttons are. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is much too composed, much harder to read. She feels almost as if she’s fumbling about in the dark, looking for the light but she can’t quite seem to find the switch, no matter how much she feels around. He keeps a carefully collected air about him that does a remarkably good job of hiding his soft spots, unlike Crowley who wears his bleeding heart on his sleeve.

“It’s absolutely beautiful.” Aziraphale says and there’s not an ounce of anything other than truth and awe in the words. He reaches up to wrap it around his neck, taking a moment to press the fabric against his cheek to marvel at it. “I simply adore it. I shall wear it from now until the spring! Thank you so very much.”

Margerie feels a warmth that starts in her chest and rises up, dancing across her cheeks and even to the tips of her ears. She sees how Crowley gets so flustered around him— he’s _charming_. “I’m glad you like it. I hope it keeps you warm.”

Aziraphale finishes settling the scarf around his neck, even though there’s no real reason for him to wear it since they’re indoors. It makes Margerie smile, though, as he picks his mug of tea back up and raises it to his lips for a sip, his eyes smiling at her from above the rim. 

“How did you pick such a lovely color?” Aziraphale asks after a sip of tea.

Margerie is caught slightly off guard by the question. “Oh. It’s— it’s the color of your eyes.”

At that, Aziraphale does flush a brilliant shade of red, ducking his head as if there’s any hope of possibly hiding it. There isn’t, but Margerie feels a thrill go down her spine at the sight of it.

They lapse into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable but seems to be punctuated with the words Margerie hasn’t said yet. It’s an interesting feeling, to sit here like they both know what she wants to say, even though she has no idea how Aziraphale would know. There’s a twinkle in his blue eyes that suggests that he’s waiting for her to say something, though. Perhaps she’s just that obvious, she thinks. Or perhaps he’s been waiting for someone to come to Crowley’s defense. Or perhaps he doesn’t actually have any idea and Margerie is reading far too much into far too little evidence. She’d done it in the very beginning with Crowley and she’d been absolutely spot on in nearly every case, but that could very well have just been luck.

The truth is that Margerie only has one side of the story and Crowley, as much as she adores him, is not a reliable source of information. Or rather, his head is too far up his ass to see the other side of things. Okay, that might be a little too harsh— although he _was_ often too dense to see what was right in front of him— or right next to him, as it often happened to be. To be fairer, Margerie corrects her thoughts. He’s trying to see through a broken heart and that’s always something difficult to do. The jagged edges of his pain marr the image in front of him, twist the words being said to him, making it hard for him to get a proper grasp on what’s actually happening. And Crowley, bless him, is too stubborn to bother asking for clarification. So Margerie is going to do it for him.

It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, after all.

(Which is simply to say that Margerie _knows_ she wouldn’t get his permission if she asked. But he can’t say no if she doesn’t ask, so technically she’s not going against his wishes.)

Just because Crowley doesn’t see the signs doesn’t mean they aren’t there. She had been in the park, she’d seen the way Aziraphale had responded to Crowley. She’d heard his tone on the phone, breathless but relieved to find Crowley on the other end. There was clearly something wild and complicated between them, something with soft spots that they both refused to expose to the world, something that bit and bled and fought back. There was something between them that Crowley couldn’t see, or wouldn’t see, or was scared to see. Something that the two of them seemed to glimpse at different times. Every time Crowley looked, he saw Aziraphale turned away. But then he’d turn away, completely missing Aziraphale’s gaze. It grew and it shifted between them, stretching and contorting into something neither of them wanted to name, even though she suspected they both knew what it was. But none of that made it any less real.

Part of her feels a little bad for her conversation with Crowley at their last dinner. She had meant what she’d said— Aziraphale _had_ hurt Crowley in a way that was distinctly visible. He’d left Crowley’s heart raw and exposed and Crowley didn’t seem to know what to do with it. So, she hadn’t lied when she’d said that. But she had lied, in a way, by omitting the rest of what she wanted to say. She’d lied by not telling Crowley that he was wrong when he’d said he was certain Aziraphale didn’t feel the same, she lied by not listing out all the reasons she knew that Aziraphale did. She’d lied by simply sighing with a shake of her head and dishing out his dinner instead of fighting tooth or nail for the happiness that she knew was waiting for him in Aziraphale if they could just get themselves together enough to figure it out. But she’d wanted to hear Crowley’s honest thoughts, to glimpse the inside of his feelings and see where he stood. And when it had turned out that he was still in a raw and vulnerable place, she’d elected not to push because she didn’t think he would appreciate it.

It was so rare to get Crowley to be straightforward and honest about anything, she couldn’t bring herself to risk the chance by burdening him with the confusion that would no doubt follow her assertions.

But that didn’t change the fact that something needed to be done and someone needed to get the ball rolling. Normally Margerie would think it wasn’t her place to meddle, but the both of them had been left alone long enough to sort it out and all they’d managed to do was make a spectacular mess of it instead, so she figured her help couldn’t possibly hurt at this point. 

But now that she was actually here, staring down Aziraphale with all of her own thoughts and ideas rattling around in her head, she wasn’t sure how to go about getting the metaphorical ball rolling, wasn’t sure how to piece everything together cleanly. With a deep breath, she tries to broach the subject carefully. “I see that plant on your sill, there.” She gestures with a nod of her head. “I saw Crowley with one just like it a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, it was a gift from him.” Aziraphale says, smiling fondly at the plant. That look alone is enough for Margerie to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is correct. “I’m afraid I’m rather terrible with plants, but he’s managed to find one that even I can keep alive.”

“You know he’s watering it when he’s here, don’t you?” She replies with a pointed sip of her drink.

“I suspected.” Aziraphale sounded almost a little forlorn. “Can’t even keep a plant alive without his help. I’m afraid I’d be rather useless if he weren’t around.”

“Is that so?’ Margerie presses, trying to keep her voice light, disinterested. Even she knows it doesn’t work, but she’s not about to blow her cover now.

“Margerie.” Aziraphale meets her gaze directly across the small space between them. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I do suspect you’re dancing around something you’d like to ask me.”

“I—” Margerie flushes again, caught red-handed. “Perhaps.”

“If I were Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, “would you spend this much time trying to phrase it delicately?”

Margerie laughs despite herself. “Heavens no.” She says fondly. “But I know him and how he’ll react. I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to go straight to teasing, let alone asking you to bare your heart.”

“Is that what you’re planning on doing?” At least Aziraphale doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks a little bit bemused, if anything. Like he finds Margerie’s hesitation endearing in some way. “Asking me to bare my heart?”

“You know, you and Crowley are quite different.” Margerie responds, leveling Aziraphale with an even gaze. “Whereas he’s all sharp angles and snide remarks, you are gentle edges and comforting words. He’d be halfway down my throat just at the idea of asking to bare his feelings but you don’t seem put off by it in the least.”

“I’m not sure what there is to be put off by.” Aziraphale replies with a small raise of the shoulders. It barely counts as a shrug, but Margerie thinks that’s what it’s meant to be. “There’s nothing wrong with having feelings.”

“Do you have feelings?” Margerie grips onto the topic like a vice, taking Aziraphale’s comment from a moment ago to heart and jumping right in.

“Doesn’t everybody?” Aziraphale counters calmly, but there’s an edge to his smile that suggests he’s teasing her by purposely avoiding the topic she’s clearly trying to get at. She recognizes his stubborn game because it’s exactly the kind of game she would play if the roles were reversed.

(She remembers a time Crowley had told her that she was too similar to Aziraphale.

“I don’t know how this keeps happening to me!” He cried, throwing his arms up in the air as she’d grinned at him, sharp as a knife. “Both of you are absolute _bastards_.”

“That,” Margerie said pointedly, “Is quite the rude thing to say.”

“Oh, and I s’pose you don’t find it rude at all to tease me constantly? To make those _awful remarks_ around him?” Crowley drew his long arms back to himself, crossing them petulantly over his chest. “You’re an even bigger bastard than he is and you can’t make me take it back.”)

Well, if he’s going to make her say it, so be it. She’ll say it. “Do you have feelings for Crowley?”

“I daresay he’s my oldest friend.” Aziraphale replies evenly, but his smile has slipped the tiniest bit. She isn’t sure what to think of that, but it makes something in her gut twist. “I’ve known him and cared for him longer than anyone else. We’ve been through a lot together, you know.”

“I have an idea.” Margerie cedes. “And I happen to think that you do have feelings for him, if you’re wondering. He disagrees. Rather vehemently, in fact.”

_That_ seems to give Aziraphale pause, and the mug of tea stops on its way to his lips, hovering uncertainly in front of him as he gazes at her through the steam rising from it. There’s a few emotions flicking across his face but Margerie can’t quite place any of them. She chooses to ignore all of them and press forward, undeterred.

“In fact, he was quite broken up recently over you. A few times, actually.” She punctuates her statement with a sip of her own tea as if to suggest that her heart isn’t racing in her chest. It is. It absolutely is, thundering against her ribcage like a drum. 

“Crowley won’t be happy that you’ve told me this.” Aziraphale’s voice is distinctly strained and he lowers his mug away from his lips without taking a sip. “You must know that.”

“That is my problem to deal with.” Margerie replies firmly. She takes a breath, lets it out, prepares herself to say what she _really_ came here to say. As much as she’d love to hear a confession, she’s not the one Aziraphale needs to be confessing to. “You needn’t concern yourself with how he handles _my_ words. But I would suggest worrying yourself with how he handles _your_ words. I don’t know if you’re unaware of the effect they have, but let me assure you that your words cut him deep.”

“I’ve certainly never meant to hurt him.”

“And yet you’ve done it. You know you’ve done it, don’t deny it.”

A pause. A sigh. An admission. “Things are more complicated than you think, Margerie.”

There’s a genuine frown on Aziraphale’s lips as he stares down into his lap and it softens Margerie. “I don’t expect you to explain it to me.” She says, leaning forward to catch his eye. “But please explain it to him. He deserves the truth, don’t you think?”

“He deserves…” Aziraphale trails off for a moment. He takes another shaky breath and then blows it out of his mouth, seeming to collapse in on himself with just that single breath. “He deserves a lot more than that.”

“So then give it to him.”

* * *

Okay, fine, Crowley was still that lovesick idiot who continued to go back to Aziraphale time and time again, despite the number of times he’d gotten hurt. Fine, he’d admit it. 

It wasn’t like there was any denying it as he slinked through the door to the bookshop, bottle of wine tucked under his arm. He was barely two steps into the place when he was removing his sunglasses and tucking them into a pocket in his jacket, baring himself wholly to Aziraphale who was walking out from the back to meet him.

They hadn’t seen each other in a few days. Crowley had called Aziraphale once, a few days ago, and Aziraphale had dodged his questions and stuttered something that wasn’t even a complete enough sentence to be considered an excuse. Crowley had shrugged it off, leaving the planning for their next meeting up to Aziraphale and then he’d hung up. It hadn’t taken more than a day for Aziraphale to call him back, sounding much more calm and collected than before— much more like his normal self. 

Not _completely_ like his normal self, though. 

There was the tiniest hint of hesitation in his voice, the tiniest undertone of uncertainty when he’d invited Crowley over to the shop for a night in. It was like every other time Aziraphale had done it, but slightly to the left, tilted just a minuscule amount off of the axis. The last time Crowley remembered Aziraphale behaving like this, it had unfolded into the whole mess that had led up to Armageddon and Crowley was not particularly keen on having a repeat of that.

“Angel,” Crowley greeted, extending the wine to him surreptitiously. 

Aziraphale took the bottle and smiled at him, but his smile was slightly askew, too. “How do you do, my dear? Have you been well?”

“Same as always.” Crowley mumbled as he plopped down on his usual spot on the couch, throwing one long leg up over the back of it.

Aziraphale had already pulled out the wine glasses and had them waiting on the table in front of the couch. Without addressing Crowley’s response, Aziraphale uncorked the wine and began pouring it, handing a glass delicately to Crowley. Crowley took it, feeling an unnerving weight settle into his stomach as he watched Aziraphale take his seat and then shift. And then shift again. And then shift _again_.

“Angel,” Crowley said and that one word alone was enough to draw a long sigh out of Aziraphale.

“How are you?” Aziraphale asked pointedly.

“You just asked me that.” Crowley pointed out rather unhelpfully. They were both fully aware of that fact which meant that Aziraphale was asking again for a particular reason.

“And you didn’t give a sufficient answer, dear boy.”

“Who are you, Margerie?” Crowley asks in a moment of defiance. It’s an attempt at dodging the question but it backfires the moment he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face. “What?”

“Nothing.” Aziraphale says in his least innocent voice. Not that Crowley has kept track of his different voices over the years. And he certainly hasn’t ranked them by most to least believable. It’s not like he has massive amounts of free time on his hands and an even more massive crush or anything. “It’s just funny you should mention Margerie.”

The groan that escapes Crowley is one of well earned dread. “What has she done now? I swear, I can’t trust her alone for a _moment_. Not even a moment, angel! The woman is a _fiend_ , always getting into trouble.”

“She hasn’t gotten into any trouble. “ Aziraphale assures him but he’s not meeting Crowley’s gaze directly so it does little to soothe Crowley’s growing concern. “She simply came by and visited me the other day.”

For a moment, Crowley feels like his entire life flashes before his eyes. (Okay, for a _few_ moments. Six-thousand years is a long time, after all. It takes a bit of time to replay it all). “Did she? And I’m sure she had lovely things to say, too. No ulterior motives there.”

Because, really, what ulterior motives could she have? It wasn’t like Crowley had admitted to her that he was in love with Aziraphale or anything. It wasn’t like Crowley had told her that Aziraphale’s actions break his heart. It wasn’t like he’d straight up laid his heart on the line when he’d described to her in relatively vivid detail all the reasons _why_ he loved Aziraphale. No, absolutely not. It wasn’t like Margerie had any sensitive information that she could tell Aziraphale.

_Fuck_.

Crowley knew there was a reason he kept humans at bay. He knew there was a reason he kept the gates to his heart tightly locked and guarded constantly. There was a reason he never spoke about the few feelings that he did have— not even with Aziraphale if he could help it. And watching the expression on Aziraphale’s face shift as he replayed whatever Margerie had said to him was just confirmation all over gain that Crowley had fucked up.

“Well,” Aziraphale began and Crowley considered just flat out cutting him off and stalking out of the shop before he had a chance to say anything else. “She helped me realize that I haven’t been particularly kind to you lately and that I owe you an apology.”

“Angel you—” Crowley starts to say out of habit of disagreeing alone before his brain catches up with the words that were said, screeching to a halt inside of his skull and refusing to piece together any additional information. “Wait, you _what_?”

“I owe you an apology, my dear. For the way I’ve treated you,” 

A silence fills the air between them, then. Aziraphale glances at Crowley occasionally as he waits for him to say something but Crowley honestly has no idea what he’s supposed to say back to that.

It takes him a few extra moments before he finally settles on something. “What did Margerie say?”

“I hardly think that’s important.” Aziraphale replies breezily and it’s his third least believable tone. This is the tone that suggests that it really isn’t important, not in the grand scheme of things, but that Crowley, specifically, would find it important. Or at the very least interesting. “But I would like this chance to apologize, if you’d let me.”

“S’nothing to apologize for.” Crowley tries and he really means it. As much as Aziraphale might have hurt him, he knows why Aziraphale made the choices he did and he can’t fault him for that. He really can’t. And he doesn’t want to, either. He simply wants to move on from it and leave it completely behind. 

“There’s plenty I owe you apologies for.” Aziraphale replies earnestly, pressing his palms flat against his thighs as he finally meets Crowley’s gaze. “But to save us both some time, I’ll start with the most important. Crowley, I’m so terribly sorry for the things I said to you at the bandstand. And I’m sorry for trying to choose Heaven over you. It’s a mistake I have learned from and one that I won’t make again.”

There’s a lump forming in Crowley’s throat and he worries that he might not be able to get the words out around it. “S’no big deal, angel. I forgive you.”

“I know you do.” Aziraphale says, but he looks distinctly relieved to hear it in person nonetheless. “You’ve always been quite—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Crowley warns with a pointed look, his voice steadier than he feels.

Aziraphale relents, but there’s a familiar fond twist to his smile as he looks back at Crowley, his blue eyes shining. “Honestly, Crowley, things are different now. It wouldn’t kill you to let me say it, would it?”

“You can’t be certain of that.” Crowley points out. “And I’d rather not find out you’re wrong, would you?”

Aziraphale huffs, sinking into the banter with ease. Crowley feels himself being swept away by it, too, settling into it like he does the couch when he comes over. He takes a swig from his nearly forgotten wine and more of the tension seems to drain out of him.

This, he thinks with the last bit of clarity he has before the wine takes it all away— this is why he keeps coming back. He comes back because even when they’re nothing more than casual acquaintances— even when they’re _fraternizing_ instead of spending time together— it’s more enjoyable than anything else Crowley could be doing. He comes back because even the worst of times with Aziraphale are better than the best of times with someone else (Sorry Margerie). Crowley comes back because it’s the one place he feels anchored, the one place he can be himself. He comes back because Aziraphale sees him and, to some extent, accepts him into his life.

It may never be what he wants it to be, but it’s more than enough for him to happily spent the rest of eternity wrapped up in it.

* * *

Margerie is honestly surprised her door doesn’t burst off its hinges at the force of the knock.

With a sigh, she begins to slowly make her way towards the door, only halfway down the hallway before Crowley throws it open and storms inside. Margerie could have sworn that she’d locked the door but her mind hadn’t been at its best the last few days. At least it was only Crowley letting himself in and not something worse.

“Margerie!” He cries as soon as he’s in the doorway, the force of his apparent anger propelling him a quarter of the way down the hallway before his eyes finally land on her and he screeches to a halt. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly,” Margerie lies gently, leaning against the wall beside her, resting her head to give her sore neck a break. “What’s gotten your trousers in a twist?”

“You absolutely are not alright.” Crowley completely ignores her question and steps closer to her. “You’re pale as a ghost and you can’t even stand up right.”

“This is how I always stand.”

“Come off it.” Crowley admonishes with exasperation. “What’s wrong?”

Margerie sighs and sags a little further into the wall. “Just a head cold, nothing to fret about.”

“I don’t _fret_.” Crowley protests, but he reaches a hand out and grasps her shoulder gently, trying to help her stand more properly as he inspects her. 

It had started a few days ago with a tickle in the back of her throat that had turned into the horrible kind of soreness that persisted even when she wasn’t swallowing something. Her voice felt raw and her limbs felt weak. In no time it had turned into an ache that had spread down her spine and into her arms and legs. She’d laid in bed for a day or two before the sniffles had come and then there was no point in denying it any further— she was definitely sick. It had happened just before she had been planning on running to the store, too, to stock back up on things like medicine and broth. 

“Careful, you don’t want to get too close or else you’ll get sick, too.” Margerie says gently, her legs already tired from standing this long.

With a withering sigh, Crowley starts to turn her around. “Off to bed with you. Do you have medicine? Soup?” When Margerie shakes her head, mercifully facing away from Crowley so she doesn’t have to see his expression, she hears him chuckle under his breath. “Now which one of us is unprepared?”

“Crowley—”

He cuts her off. Not unkindly, but firmly enough that Margerie knows not to argue. “Off to bed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before she can protest— not that she had the energy to protest anyways— Crowley is already out the door. Margerie takes her time heading back to her bedroom, her entire body exhausted by the time she falls onto the bed and nestles her way back under the covers. She feels feverish and it takes some time to get her setup exactly right. Eventually she settles on laying with her right leg and left arm out from under the blanket, the rest of her body covered. It gives her the sense of security she needs while keeping her cool enough to not drown in a puddle of sweat while she waits for Crowley to return.

It doesn’t take him long. In just a few minutes, she hears the door to her flat open again and she recognizes his footsteps as he pads down the hallway and into her kitchen. There’s the rustling of a few bags and a couple choice curse words under his breath as something goes clattering to the floor. Margerie can’t stop the grateful smile that finds her tired lips as he hears him head towards her room after a moment. 

It only takes a moment for him to appear in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and what appears to be medicine in the other. “Here.”

He offers her the medicine which she takes into her own hand gratefully and then he uses his free hand to help her sit up, propping her against the head of the bed. It disrupts her careful cover configuration, but she’s not upset about it in the least. Once situated, Crowley passes over the cup of water and takes a step back to allow her to have her space. Margerie takes it gratefully, the cool condensation on the outside of the glass already a relief as she clutches it tightly.

“Soup should be ready soon.” Crowley mumbles as she throws her head back to swallow down the medicine. 

“Did I have some in the house?” Margerie asks between grateful sips of water. “I didn’t think I did.”

“You didn’t.” Crowley confirms casually, purposefully not looking at her. “Canned soup’s no good anyways.”

The implication of it is clear and Margerie feels her heart swell in her chest at the thought. Crowley, dear Crowley, who was apparently rubbish at baking if Aziraphale was to believed, was making her soup from scratch because she was sick. He’d barreled into her apartment like a bull with a purpose and had somehow managed to immediately redirect his attitude after he’d taken one glance at her. His hidden kindnesses would never fail to surprise Margerie— and she _knew_ he was kind. She had seen him perform many small acts of consideration and still, the depth of his caring for others ran deeper than even she could see. 

“Trying to poison me, are you?” She joked instead because the least she could do was return Crowley’s kindness by not acknowledging what he’d done. She’d never understand _why_ he wanted all of his good deeds to go unnoticed, but he did and she’d respect that. “Sickness wasn’t killing me fast enough so you decided to speed it up?”

“Get you out of my hair.” Crowley confirmed, and then his look darkened slightly. “Stop you from saying ridiculous things to _certain people_.”

“Ah,” Margerie smiled at him, understanding at once why he’d been so keen on breaking her door down earlier. “How is Aziraphale?”

“Don’t act as if you’ve done nothing wrong!” Crowley accuses with a finger thrust in her direction. “You made him _apologize_ to me. I can’t believe you. Really, I can’t. That’s a new level of bastard, even for you.”

“I didn’t—” Margerie’s rebuttal was cut short by a coughing fit and she could see the way it softened the anger right back out of Crowley. She took a few ragged breaths after before pressing on. “I didn’t _make_ him do anything. We simply had a lovely chat.”

“There’s still time for me to add poison to that soup, you know.” Crowley threatens, but it’s hardly real. He sighs again and drops back onto the armrest of the chair she keeps in her room, crossing his arms over his chest as he surveys her.

“Is that all he did? Apologize?”

“What more could you have wanted him to do?” Crowley asks incredulously. And then, when Margerie opens her mouth to answer, Crowley throws his arms out in front of him. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t even want to know.”

It startles a laugh out of Margerie that turns into a cough and she sinks back further against the headboard, trying to get her breathing back under control. She sips at the water still in her hands and groans at the ache in her throat as the water goes down. Crowley takes pity on her, adjusting her covers before stalking back out to the kitchen and returning a moment later with a bowl of steaming soup. He replaces the glass with the bowl, setting the glass safely on her nightstand before crossing around and climbing up on the other side of her bed.

“What on earth are you doing?” Margerie asks, glancing at him as she blows on the first spoonful of soup. 

“Keeping you company, obviously.” Crowley says with a shrug that’s meant to look casual but absolutely doesn’t. She loves him all the more for it. “I told you, I don’t get sick.”

She wants to tell him, again, that everyone gets sick sometimes but finds that she doesn’t have the energy. Plus, the company is nice and it would frankly be quite rude of her to chase him out after he’d been so diligent to take care of her this far. So, she sends him a withering look instead and takes the first bite of soup.

It’s _delicious_. It’s warm, the chicken and noodles are cooked perfectly and there’s just enough flavor of the vegetables. 

“Oh, Crowley.” She mumbles, already spooning up her next bite. “This is incredible.”

She sees the deliberate twitch at the corner of Crowley’s mouth that means he’s suppressing a smile. “Tell that to Aziraphale, would you? He thinks I’m a menace in the kitchen or something. Never even given me a chance to cook.”

Margerie knows she shouldn’t be teasing him given how thoughtful he’s been, but she can’t stop herself. “Oh, so you _do_ want me to talk to Aziraphale again?”

“That’s it!” Crowley exclaims at once, reaching for the remote in the middle of the bed and snatching it into his hand with the same ferocity he’d barged into her apartment with earlier. “I’ll stay here to make sure you’re okay but I am _not_ talking to you anymore.”

As if to make his point, Crowley snaps the remote towards the TV and clicks the power button. The TV flickers to life before them and Crowley makes a whole show about turning the volume up too loud for them to have any sort of conversation. It’s probably loud enough to disturb the neighbors down below, but Margerie finds she doesn’t care. She laughs as much as she can with her aching back and takes another bite of soup, gazing across the space at Crowley who is steadfastly avoiding her gaze, pretending to watch The Golden Girls with all the interest in the world. 

“I’m not sorry for saying you deserve to be treated right.” She says as loudly as she can manage. The sound of the TV nearly does drown her voice out completely, but she sees Crowley’s shoulders sag and knows that her words hit home.

“You’re never sorry for anything you do.” Crowley mumbles as he turns the volume back to a reasonable level. “I don’t think you know _how_ to be sorry.”

“He really does love you, you know. I should’ve said it last time we talked about it but you were in such a state that I didn’t think you’d appreciate hearing it.”

“I don’t appreciate hearing it now, either.”

“You both seem incapable of seeing what’s right in front of you. That’s all I’m saying.”

Crowley sighs and it’s the kind of sad sigh that says he wants to believe her, even if he thinks he shouldn’t. “Eat your soup and get some rest. I’ll give you a proper lecture for meddling when you’re feeling better.”

She glances at him again as she waits for her next bite of soup to cool. This time he’s looking back at her, his black glasses reflecting her pale form. She looks ragged, worn down and all around terrible, but for the first time in days she doesn’t _feel_ terrible, she feels content.

“Thank you.”

Crowley makes some sort of affronted noise and turns away from her, gesturing towards the TV. Margerie turns to watch The Golden Girls with him as she eats her soup and before she knows it, they’re yelling at the TV, laughing together and completely moved on from their previous topic of conversation. When Margerie finishes her soup, Crowley takes the bowl back to the kitchen and returns to set more medicine on the side table. He’s barely climbed back onto the bed before she’s drifting to sleep, feeling properly cared for.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale blows a breath out through his mouth. “We’ve really gotten ourselves into quite the mess, haven’t we?”
> 
> “Yes, you rather have.” Margerie replies and her agreement seems to startle Aziraphale who laughs despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know I haven't been great at replying to comments. I will try to catch up on them tonight. I apologize for the delay. But know, at the very least, that I have read your comment, probably more than once, and it has brought me so much joy and given me such a sense of love. I cannot overstate how much I love you guys and how incredibly thankful I am for the warm response you continue to give this fic! I struggled with this chapter, so I hope you won't be able to tell as you read it!

There were a lot of words that could describe Crowley.

Kind was not among them, but stubborn was. Hellbent, even. Absolutely immovable. When something struck Crowley, he could not be swayed from his path by any force. So, when Crowley had told Margerie that she was absolutely  _ not _ going grocery shopping alone in the middle of a surprising late fall ice storm, it wasn’t up for negotiation. He wasn’t telling her that he didn’t  _ want _ her to do it, he was telling her that he wouldn’t  _ let _ her do it. He’d use a demonic miracle if he had to— superglue her to her chair and come up with some explanation for it later. Margerie hadn’t seemed to believe him until he had unceremoniously shoved her out of the way of her own driver’s side door and stared her down until she climbed in the passenger side instead.

(Honestly, it was a compromise because Crowley didn’t even like the idea of her going at all. She should be thanking him. Er, well, if he weren’t a demon, he’d deserve thanks, anyways).

After she had been sick, Crowley had gone to even greater lengths to take care of her. He’d used a minor miracle on her when he’d fed her the soup to ensure that she would get healthy as quick as (reasonably) possible. He would’ve snapped his fingers and taken the illness away from her completely right then and there with no remorse, but he knew she would have questions and he wouldn’t have answers— not ones he could actually give her, anyways. And that was the thing about Margerie— she was persistent. If she suddenly got better and suspected for even a moment that Crowley was somehow involved— and there was no doubt that she would be completely  _ positive _ that it was somehow his doing— she would not drop the subject until she had satisfactory answers.

(Much in the way she continued to relentlessly bring Aziraphale up and hedge around the question of whether anything new had developed between the two of them since the last time she had asked. Nothing ever had, partially because Crowley still wasn’t convinced that something  _ was _ going to develop and partially because she asked so goddamn frequently there was barely any time in between  _ for _ anything to happen).

So, he had settled on a small miracle that lessened her symptoms as drastically as he could without her getting suspicious and within two days she was feeling better, and within five she was completely back to her normal self. She had made a few jokes about Crowley healing her with his delicious soup and Crowley had simply kept his face in a carefully neutral mask and changed the subject as fast as he could. She’d given him a suspicious glance, once, and he’d sneered back at her. She’d laughed and let the idea go and Crowley had finally been able to release the breath he hadn’t meant to be holding.

“You’re being overbearing.” Margerie chided as Crowley stood next to her open door, watching as she climbed out of the car in front of the grocery store. She looked a little green but he thinks it’s likely his driving— Aziraphale looks that way when he climbs out of the Bentley sometimes, too. “I do know how to get my own groceries.”

“First of all,” Crowley shut the door behind her and watched as she wobbled for a moment before getting her feet properly underneath her. He could feel all the muscles in his arms tense in anticipation of having to reach out and catch her, but she steadied herself before he needed to. “I do happen to remember a particular time you damn near fell off the curb while shopping for groceries alone.” Margerie glanced at him over her shoulder, sending him her most withering and unimpressed look. Crowley just grinned at her in response. “And second of all, you’re hardly one to talk about overbearing. Where’d you think I got all that medicine from anyways?”

“I was just trying to care for you.” She sniffed, turning away and heading into the store, successfully cutting off any retort Crowley might have.

He didn’t have one, though, because ‘ _ and I was just trying to care for you _ ’ was distinctly undemonic and far too soft for him to say out loud. 

Instead, he simply trailed her into the store, the ground beneath his feet slick with the ice that had surprised the entire city. It wasn’t entirely uncommon to get a cold front sweeping in nearly overnight, but it rarely caused something like this. The rain had quickly turned to sleet and in no time the roads were covered in a thin layer of ice, the colorful leaves that had fallen plastered to the ground beneath the ice, trapped in a hidden world. Of course, this hadn’t caused Crowley to change his driving habits in the least but it did mean that there were less people to be potential targets for him on the road. He’d driven Margerie’s car which certainly wasn’t his Bentley, but he got the distinct impression that this car would never dream of hurting Margerie and so it had obeyed beautifully on the drive.

Margerie made it to the door of the grocery shop without incident, pushing on through the throng of people and heading to the carts immediately. Crowley watched her go, grateful when she had a cart to call her own. Crowley tried to pretend not to see the way she seemed to walk more unsteadily now than she ever had before, tried not to notice how long it took her to climb stairs. Crowley knew about humans and aging, of course, he’d seen it happen how many millions of times? It was different to witness it up close, though, to see the way she seemed to grow weaker right in front of his eyes. It was different to care about one of the humans and to feel the decline in her health as a personal attack.

(So what if he used a few miracles to help her out there, too? It only seemed fair. She had given him so much in the way of quality of life, the least he could do was return the favor).

The grocery shopping was easy. And in fact, Crowley had tried to insist that he go alone and get her everything she needed. But Margerie was a force of will in her own right and more than capable of standing up to Crowley and staring him back down and so their communal shopping trip had been a mid ground, a compromise more than anything else. Crowley didn’t mind, even though he would’ve just gone back to his flat and miracled her entire grocery list and saved himself the effort if she’d allowed him to go alone. Going to the grocery store afforded him the ability to spread his favorite low-grade sort of inconvenience. Barely through the first aisle and already three trolleys had the annoying squeaking wheel that didn’t quite steer right and two people would find that their coupons had expired yesterday.

Crowley was practically grinning to himself as he caught up to Margerie in the aisle, easily reaching above her to grab things off the shelves that she couldn’t reach, dropping them into the trolley without preamble. Margerie, as much as she wanted to be put upon by the entire act of him helping her, couldn’t stifle a smile at his assistance and Crowley didn’t fail to notice the way she refused to meet his gaze. He wouldn’t  _ say _ that it gave him a sort of warm— what was it Aziraphale always said?— fuzzy feeling in his chest, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t there.

(Crowley had learned somewhere in his long history that ignoring his feelings didn’t, in fact, make them leave. He hadn’t handled the realization particularly well and had drank entirely too much alcohol in the following weeks to try to cope with it. When it turned out that the alcohol didn’t make his feelings go away, either, Crowley had sulked in his flat for about a month before resigning himself to just ignoring them  _ harder _ and seeing what happened from there.)

The grocery store was crowded and Crowley was whisked away from Margerie on more than one occasion when a group of people got between them. He rounded a corner to chase after her, nearly smashed into a trolley and stumbled to the side, hand reaching up instinctively to grip at his sunglasses as he regained his balance. They knew better than to fall off of his face completely, but even his sheer force of will couldn’t keep them completely steady in place. He needed to use his actual hands for that. Gravity, as it turned out, was a force that even Crowley couldn’t bend completely to his will. 

Margerie seemed to have stopped upon noticing the commotion and was staring at him with one hand poised on the door to the refrigerated section, a selection of milk hovering just behind her. The offending trolley owner had the audacity to huff at Crowley before making a sort of spectacle of having to steer around him to go about their shopping. Crowley grimaced and used a quick miracle to change the expiration date on something in that person’s trolley before finally making his way back to Margerie’s side, his mood sufficiently soured.

“Why don’t you just take those off?” Margerie asks with purposeful disinterest. Crowley recognizes it because it’s something he’s spent years perfecting. “You worry so much about damaging them, why not just tuck them away safely in your pocket?”

The truth was that Crowley had known that this question was coming eventually. In fact, he was surprised it had taken this long for it to come at all. His sunglasses were often a topic of conversation between the humans— the once he knew and the ones he didn’t. It seemed to unnerve them, the way he kept them on indoors. Normally he loved it, hoping that it sat so uncomfortably in their stomachs that they carried that weird energy with them home and spread it to all the people around them. The sheer idea of it brought him a certain amount of glee. But he didn’t want to give Margerie that feeling, didn’t want to ever be the reason for her to experience anything unpleasant.

“I’ve got a condition.” Crowley said through his teeth. It wasn’t technically a lie, he  _ did _ have an eye condition, but it certainly tasted like one on his tongue anyways. “Sensitive eyes.”

“I’ve seen you keep them on in a completely dark room.” Margerie pointed out kindly as she inspected the expiration date on the milks. Crowley was certain she was thinking of when she’d been sick and the way he’d kept them on despite the only light in the room being that of the TV after she’d fallen asleep. “Surely they can’t be  _ that _ sensitive.”

“Nobody sees my eyes.” Crowley retorts because he thinks that’s probably what Margerie is getting at. “S’not just you.”

Margerie hums for a moment, finally selecting a milk and making a point of moving things around in the trolley so it has somewhere to sit without crushing anything else. Crowley watches her do this deliberately and he swears he knows the words that are going to come out of her mouth next before she even has a chance to think them. He takes in a breath and holds it, bracing for the inevitable.

Sure enough, it takes only another two seconds before Margerie finally looks up at him with a signature smirk on her face and Crowley can feel his weak spot aching in anticipation of the blow she’s about to deal. “I bet Aziraphale is the exception to that, right? I bet he’s seen your eyes. He probably thinks they’re beautiful.”

Crowley groans out loud and throws his head back in frustration. Even though he knows she’s going to say ridiculous shit like this, he’s never prepared for when she actually says it. There’s no way to keep his fickle human heart calm, no way to stop it from leaping into his throat and fluttering like a bird. No matter how much he tells himself that this is ridiculous, they’re just  _ words _ and Margerie is simply trying to get a rise out of him, he feels the need to shove his hands deep into the pockets of his pants in a desperate attempt to keep his fingers still. 

“S’not important.” He remarks, turning his gaze away because he can feel his cheeks burning. He knows it doesn’t actually do any good because Margerie can definitely see the color flooding his face, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Just admit it.” Margerie goads as she takes back off now that her groceries are settled.

“I won’t.”

“Just  _ say it _ and I’ll let it go.”

Crowley balks and turns to look at her. “You don’t let  _ anything _ go.”

Margerie considers this for a moment while she waits for people to leave the end of an aisle so she can turn down it and then she looks up at Crowley and shrugs, completely unbothered. It’s not the first time Crowley has realized what a complete bastard she is, it certainly won’t be the last time, he knows, and he loves her all the more for it. “Just admit it.”

“Fine.  _ Fine _ . Will that make you happy?” He growls as he steps to her side to allow people to squeeze by him. “Aziraphale has seen my eyes. Of course he’s the exception to this— he’s the exception to  _ everything _ . Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes, actually.” Margerie smiles up and then— and then she has the audacity to reach up and  _ pat _ Crowley’s cheek. Crowley feels like he’s about to burn down in hellfire at the sheer indignity of it. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“You are a  _ wicked  _ woman!” Crowley nearly screeches as she heads down the aisle way as if she hasn’t just mortified him in public with no remorse. “Do you hear me? You are  _ wicked _ !”

* * *

In the time since Margerie had talked to Aziraphale, things had somehow managed to become a bigger mess.

If she were being honest, Margerie would admit that she was impressed. In a bad way, obviously, but impressed nonetheless. She hadn’t honestly thought they could complicate their relationship any more than they already had, hadn’t thought they could somehow dig themselves into a bigger hole, hadn’t thought they could  _ still _ manage to dance around the unnamed thing between them when she had all but shoved it in  _ both  _ of their faces, but that had proved her spectacularly wrong. Now they spent nearly every day together, which alone wasn’t the problem. She saw Crowley come and go, saw Aziraphale show up at their complex from time to time. She watched them walk down the street together, their hands hanging limp in the space between them (progress, because now their hands were closer together) but not touching. She watched their awkward goodbyes where they didn’t meet each other’s eyes and lingered far too long to be anything but uncomfortable.

But, as utterly ridiculous as it was— and it  _ was _ ridiculous, absolutely and completely ridiculous— she had to give them credit because she was fairly certain that this was both of them attempting to breach the subject of this weird nebula they’d spent all this time wrapped up in. As far as she could tell, this incredible awkwardness was actually a step forward, a step in the  _ right _ direction, as impossible as that seemed. The more she watched them the more she realized that they were both at least  _ attempting _ to put their feelings on display for the other to pick up on. (They didn’t seem to  _ be _ picking up on each other’s feelings, but at least now the chance was there.  _ Actually _ picking up on each other’s feelings was probably a step or two ahead still).

So, she did her best to stay out of it.

Not completely of course, never completely. She still needled Crowley for information, still asked pointed questions and stared at him until he finally cracked under the pressure and told her what she was looking for. But for a brief period of time, she stopped making subtle— okay, well, they were  _ intended _ to be subtle but whether they actually were or not was another discussion— nudges for Crowley to confess his feelings. For the brief time, she was willing to step aside and let them try to sort things out themselves. They’d done a terrible job of it in the past but she was optimistic that this time it would finally stick.

(And if this time it  _ didn’t _ stick, well, Margerie wasn’t completely above confessing  _ for _ each of them if she really had to.)

Lost somewhere in these trains of thought, Margerie doesn’t immediately notice the two of them when she steps out of the complex with her garbage in hand, heading towards the dumpster. She’d seen them leave together earlier in the evening through her window and honestly she hadn’t been expecting them to return. Their most recent habit seemed to be that Aziraphale would come to Crowley at his flat and then they’d end the night in the bookshop. She assumed they went to dinner or for walks in the park most nights based on what Crowley would tell her, but there were occasions when he’d mention a play that they’d seen, or a museum they had visited. They did this almost every night—  _ almost _ every night because Crowley still showed up religiously on her doorstep every Tuesday, without an official invitation at this point, for their weekly tea. 

“Margerie, dear!” She was halfway back to the door, hands empty now, when she heard her name and startled, glancing over her shoulder.

Even having heard Aziraphale’s voice, it took Margerie a moment to find them. Crowley with all of his tight fitting black nearly blended in completely and Aziraphale was tucked far enough around the corner that she probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he hadn’t spoken— despite the fact that the moon, too, seemed to illuminate the crown of his head like he had a permanent halo.

“Oh, hello!” She greeted warmly, smiling at both of them.

Aziraphale smiled back broadly, gesturing for her to come closer and join them in whatever they were doing. Margerie spared a glance at Crowley and, even though she couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, she knew he was looking at her. They shared a brief moment of an unspoken conversation before Crowley gave a slight inclination of his head to indicate that she should, in fact, come join them. So she did. She slid up to the two of them, standing just far enough away to be able to easily glance between both of them.

“How was your—” A sharp look from Crowley warns her off of the teasing she was intending to do. So, she falters mid sentence, the word  _ date _ dying on the tip of her tongue, and finishes lamely with “dinner?”

Aziraphale either doesn’t notice or is kind enough to move breezily past it like he doesn’t know that her sentence was supposed to end with the word  _ date _ . “Oh, it was  _ excellent _ . Crowley took me to this new sushi restaurant and I daresay it might be my new favorite!”

“Well now,” Margerie says fondly, glancing at Crowley. He could draw boundaries for her teasing, but he couldn’t get her to give up teasing him completely. “Crowley never takes me to new restaurants.”

“I—” Crowley starts to say, but Aziraphale is already turning towards him, looking affronted on Margerie’s behalf.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” He chides and Margerie sees the way Crowley crumbles under the weight of Aziraphale’s disapproval. Surely Aziraphale must be able to see it, too, she thinks. Or perhaps she  _ hopes _ because so far they’ve done nothing but demonstrate a distinct  _ inability _ to tell what the other one is feeling. “That’s terrible, Margerie deserves to be taken out.”

“I’ll say she does.” Crowley mumbles, his meaning the complete opposite of Aziraphale’s. “ _ Taken  _ out.”

Aziraphale immediately looks appalled and turns to stare wide-eyed at Margerie, as if concerned that she might take it poorly— or worse, as an actual threat. By the time his eyes land on her, she’s dissolved into a fit of laughter, bracing a hand on her knee as she curls forward, barely able to catch her breath. She glances up for a brief moment to see the edge of Crowley’s mouth crooked up in a smile and Aziraphale looking particularly relieved that she had taken it as the joke that it was. 

“I suppose I deserve that.” She concedes once she finally gets her bearings again.

Still, the laughing had knocked a lot of the air out of her and she was suddenly feeling weaker in the legs. Getting older was not a graceful thing, she had learned the hard way, but she seemed to be managing it about as good as possible. And meeting Crowley had brought some sort of youthful energy back into her life. Since she’d known Crowley, she’d felt more energized, her joints had ached less, and she’d felt much more like she could conquer the world. It was a strange thing that she couldn’t quite pinpoint on one specific thing other than Crowley in general. She couldn’t say if it was his attitude, his friendship, the mental gymnastics he put her through as she constantly tried to piece together all the small tidbits of information he gave her, but she could say that it had distinctly started after the two of them had become friends.

Whatever it was, she was grateful for it. It was a blessing and she wasn’t going to think too hard on it, lest it get taken away somehow.

“What are you two doing tucked away over here?” She asked after a moment, taking a few steps to her right so that she could brace against the wall and catch the rest of her breath. She was already feeling better, but she thought the extra support might do her some good.

“Oh!” Aziraphale lights up immediately. “Crowley was telling me about the stars!”

“The stars?” Margerie echoed, turning a questioning gaze on Crowley who was stubbornly avoiding both of their gazes.

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s smile is knowing and he reaches out for the briefest of moments to place a hand on Crowley’s shoulder as he explains. “I suppose he probably hasn’t told you, has he? He’s rather ashamed of it, though he absolutely shouldn’t be.” That was distinctly directed at Crowley and he knew it, his shoulders hiking up a notch in response. “But he has rather— ah, a  _ fascination _ with the stars. He knows quite a lot about them, in fact.”

It takes a moment for Margerie to absorb this new information. It’s not that it’s unbelievable— Crowley, for all of his cool and aloof facade is perhaps one of the most  _ uncool _ people Margerie had ever met— it just catches her off guard. She could’ve picked a few niche interests that she would’ve expected him to have, but the stars would not have made it among them. 

Perhaps it’s because they’re something she more or less takes for granted. Perhaps it’s because the stars are always just  _ there _ and she’s never really spent time  _ thinking about _ them. Or maybe it’s because, in the heart of the city like this, the stars are hardly even visible. She doesn’t ever even  _ see _ them enough to  _ think _ about them. Out of sight, out of mind, that whole thing. She suddenly feels sad for the realization, though, because the stars are a beautiful gift of the universe that she should enjoy more often.

(She tries not to make a comparison here, but her mind is quickly connecting dots despite her protests. Crowley, a beautiful gift from the universe that she hadn’t made any attempt to get to know until they’d been thrust into an elevator together. Crowley, shining bright but pushed aside by so many people, his light dimmed by the bright light of so many people who put their feelings over his own. Crowley, sweet Crowley, an entire galaxy of his own if anyone just bothered to  _ look _ . She hoped Aziraphale was looking.)

“Tell me about them,” Margerie breathes, glancing up at the sky.

Maybe it was the late fall weather, maybe it was the fact that it had rained the last few days and chased everyone indoors. Neither of those actually made sense, but Margerie needed some explanation for why the stars were shining so brightly above them tonight, as if the lights of the city itself couldn’t touch them no matter how hard it tried. 

And it  _ was _ a beautiful late fall evening. The air was crisp enough that both Aziraphale and Crowley were wrapped up in their scarves, the matching pattern making Margerie smile as much as the realization that they were wearing her gifts made her feel like crying out of adoration. They each wore their own jackets, hands tucked mostly out of sight to fight against the cool wind as it nipped by. The air was clear and Margerie felt like she could see the sharp outline of every bare branch on the trees, every single rooftop within their view. It was the kind of chilly fall night that held a lot of promise— of adventure, of something else entirely, she couldn’t put her finger on it exactly but there was a sort of magical quality shimmering in the air around them and making the night feel alive. 

“Right.” Crowley says, glancing up at the sky for a brief moment and then glancing at both Margerie and Aziraphale. His nervousness was nearly palpable as he took in a shuddering breath and pointed up at the sky. “That there’s the big dipper. D’you see it? It’s like a— like a giant spoon or something.”

Margerie followed his pointing finger to a series of stars in the sky. She had heard of the big dipper— she was fairly certain that it was one of the constellations that  _ everyone _ knew— but she hadn’t seen it in years. It took her a moment to piece out all the stars and connect them into the appropriate spoon shape, but she got there after a moment and a little bit of tracing from Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, oh, I see.” She said after a moment. “That one is part of the  _ handle _ .”

“Yes,” Crowley replied after a moment, “Yes, right. And d’you notice how that one is brighter than the others?”

“I do.” Margerie agrees.

“That’s the north star,” Crowley remarks. “Supposed to be the brightest star in the sky. Always leads north. Legend says you can follow it home from anywhere in the world.”

He rambles on about the legends surrounding the star— how they came to be, how they’re right and, perhaps even more importantly, how they’re  _ wrong—  _ seeming to lose himself completely in the thought of it all, for a moment hardly noticing the two people at his side. He looks animated, talking with his hands, his knowledge leaking from the smile on his face while he talks about how the stars all relate to each other. Margerie has seen him come alive on various topics over time, but nothing ever quite like this. It was like he was shining from the inside out as he spoke, bearing the secrets of his soul that Margerie had been longing to see for over a year at this point. 

Margerie glances over at Aziraphale for a moment, intending to catch his eye and make some fond-but-exasperated expression at Crowley’s antics that she was certain he would echo, only to find him already staring at Crowley with the most tender expression Margerie had ever seen. She could feel the air being knocked out of her own lungs at the sight of it. His smile was small and intimate and he was looking at Crowley as if he, personally, had hung each star in the sky.

Something about it echoes insider Margerie’s heart, striking chords that she hasn’t felt in a long time. She knows that look: the look of pure  _ love _ . She recognizes it and it makes her feel like she could cry. It’s the look her husband had given her before she had lost him, the look she’d seen reflected back at her for nearly fifty happy years. There was devotion in that look— it was a look that said  _ you are the only one for me. You’re all there is. _ Margerie feels her heart stumble to a clumsy stop in her chest as she watches Aziraphale stare at Crowley with all the love in the world and then some. 

(This, she knows with unwavering certainty, is the kind of love Crowley deserves. This is the only kind of love she would accept for him.)

Crowley remained completely unaware of this, his tirade taking at least two detours, his point getting completely lost somewhere along the way. But Aziraphale listened, enraptured, the entire time, leaning a little closer to Crowley to hear him better, interjecting from time to time and smiling proudly to himself when he got something right. Aziraphale hung off of every word Crowley said. Margerie was fairly certain that there wasn’t anything— not heaven above or hell below— that could draw Aziraphale’s attention away from Crowley in this moment, nothing that could matter more to him than watching Crowley talk excitedly about something that matters to him. Aziraphale looked like he would stand in this exact spot until his fingers and toes turned blue and he’d  _ still _ refuse to go in if there was more Crowley had to say on the subject.

Margerie had said that Crowley wore his heart on his sleeve and he did, but Aziraphale wore his heart in his eyes. His gaze was unadulterated adoration, the purest form of love— the kind that couldn’t be questioned. Aziraphale looked like he had been put on the Earth specifically to live this moment and to love Crowley for all of his imperfections. He looked like he was created specifically to be Crowley’s counterpart and to fit alongside him like a puzzle piece.

Margerie, who had originally been very genuinely interested in the stars, seemed to find that she couldn’t listen to a word that Crowley said. She couldn’t stop looking at Aziraphale and she didn’t fail to notice the fact that she hadn’t once gained Aziraphale’s attention. She was staring at him blatantly from point blank range and he was so wrapped up in Crowley that he didn’t even notice, didn’t feel the burning weight of her gaze. Crowley was the center of his world and everything else circled around him.

Or, Margerie supposed, the rest of the world probably didn’t exist to Aziraphale. She remembers those moments— when the world would shrink around her and her husband, when everything else would fade to nothingness and it was just the two of them in their own little bubble, the two of them against everything else. She thinks, looking at Aziraphale and the way he catches the corner of his lip between his teeth to try and stifle a smile, that it’s exactly what’s going on here. To Aziraphale it’s just him, Crowley and the stars. There’s not much more romantic than that.

It occurs to her then that the decent thing to do might be to slip out without either of them noticing, leaving them in their own world and crossing her fingers that they would act on the growing tension between them two of them. Even  _ they _ couldn’t possibly take this moment and ruin it. Not even they could have this electricity crackling in the air between them, this bare exploration of their hearts, and come out the other side without finally, finally,  _ finally _ putting all of the pieces together. She was just pushing off of the wall to do exactly that when Crowley seemed to finally resurface and take a breath, realizing just how much he’d just said.

“Er.” He paused, glancing first at Margerie and then at Aziraphale, their gazes lingering together between the two of them, the world once again seeming to melt away until it’s only the two of them lost in each other’s eyes. “Sorry, bit much, yeah? I just meant to say that the legend is that the Big Dipper, more specifically the North Star, will point you home.”

Aziraphale blinks once, twice, three times and Margerie realizes that he hadn’t actually been listening to much of what Crowley had said— simply enough to reply and encourage Crowley to keep going. Something in her heart swells at the realization that Aziraphale loved listening to Crowley so much that he would gently keep him talking as much as he possibly could. That same thing swelled even further when she realized that it was simply Crowley’s happiness that Aziraphale enjoyed, not the topic he was talking about. She was suddenly solidly sure that Crowley could’ve gone on a rant about absolutely anything and Aziraphale would still be looking at him like the sun rose and set with him each day, like he was the one who turned the tides of the sea.

“Interesting,” She says when the silence stretches too long and she notices Crowley starting to shift from foot to foot, glancing down as he waits for one of them to comment.  _ He doesn’t see it _ , she realizes and thinks immediately that it’s time to give a little nudge again, even though she’d sworn to leave them to their own devices. Whatever had been swelling in her heart is still there, but it pauses for a moment, threatening to burst at the idea that somehow, despite it all, the two of them would’ve still managed to walk out of this situation without finally resolving things. “Is it just me or does it look like the North Star is above your bookshop, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale seems startled to be addressed directly and he turns to look at her, the light from a nearby street lamp catching his blue eyes and illuminating the unfiltered feelings there. Margerie feels raw, nearly exposed, at seeing all of his emotions there. She feels almost like her own heart is being fileted open, laid bare to be inspected. Aziraphale’s emotions are so strong, so clear, that Margerie can feel the pang of them inside her own chest, drumming against her ribs like the beat of some love song. “Ah, indeed! I do believe you’re quite right, the bookshop looks to be about directly under it.”

“Would you look at that,” Margerie says to the open air between the three of them, her gaze fixated on Crowley. She was certain he could feel it by the way he seemed to wilt under it. “It  _ is _ leading you home.”

“Home,” Aziraphale echoes with a smile.

“Home,” Crowley repeats more softly underneath his breath, but still loud enough for both of them to hear. “Yeah.”

And in that moment, Margerie is one-hundred-percent certain that Aziraphale would be a puddle on the ground if such a thing were possible.

* * *

“No, nonono, what I’m saying  _ is—” _ Crowley presses himself up onto one of his elbows, other arm gesturing in the air before him wildly as he makes a series of noises that aren’t quite words.

Aziraphale looks on from his spot in the chair to Crowley’s right, his smile twisted into a wry mimicry as he waits for Crowley to coherently make some sort of point. Crowley never gets there. It doesn’t actually matter, though, because Aziraphale knows what he’s going for. Aziraphale always knows what he’s going for, could finish his sentence right from the beginning with no hesitation. But Aziraphale is a bastard and he likes to make Crowley work for things, especially when he finds whatever Crowley is saying to be ludicrous. He quite enjoys making Crowley say those complete thoughts out loud.

“I’m waiting.” Aziraphale reminds him as he lifts his mug of tea to his lips and takes a sip.

Whatever train of thought Crowley had been chasing halts suddenly at the sight of Aziraphale’s lips, his throat as he swallows the tea. Crowley feels his mind run smack dab into the back of the train, screeching to a stop of its own and tumbling down. Crowley’s hand falls limp into his lap as he drops his head back onto his shoulders, eyes directed towards the ceiling.

“Forget it,” He murmurs, his throat suddenly dry. “Stupid point, anyways.”

“Oh, my dear.” Crowley doesn’t look up but he hears as Aziraphale sets his tea cup back onto the saucer and then as the saucer slides gently across the table a moment later. “I didn’t say—”

“No, nevermind.” Crowley waves a hand dismissively, pulling his elbow out from underneath himself and flopping back against the pillows. “New topic.”

Aziraphale hesitates for a beat too long and Crowley finally draws his gaze over to Aziraphale, tracing his cheekbones and the way his eyelashes fan out across them when he blinks. It takes Crowley a second to realize that Aziraphale  _ still _ isn’t speaking because he’s lost somewhere in the curls on Aziraphale’s head and the consideration of whether or not they would actually feel as soft as a cloud.

By the time Crowley realizes he hasn’t been paying any attention to what Aziraphale is doing, Aziraphale is wringing his hands together in his lap the way he does when he’s about to say something that he has to screw his courage together for. It’s his nervous habit for when he’s not sure how Crowley is going to handle whatever news is coming next and Crowley hates the fact that he missed all of the telltale signs that come before the hand-wringing.

(The lip biting comes first, but it’s not a guarantee to lead to hand-wringing as Aziraphale also bites his lip on occasion to try and suppress a smile. Next, he starts drumming his fingers. Usually he does this against his thighs but Crowley has seen him do it against a table top on one or two occasions. By the time Crowley sees both of these signals, he knows that something is coming. By the time Aziraphale gets to hand-wringing, he knows something  _ serious _ is coming.)

As much as Crowley would never curse Margerie, he’s particularly cross with her lately because she has put these ridiculous ideas into his head that have taken root and created lives of their own. He used to be able to lock away thoughts about the softness of Aziraphale’s hair, used to be able to tear his gaze away when Aziraphale took a sip of something, his eyes fluttering shut and his shoulders hiking up as he took in a breath, only to collapse in on himself in sheer delight a moment later. Crowley used to be able to  _ ignore _ all of those things. But then Margerie had started talking, putting ideas in his head, drawing forward Crowley’s feelings and inspecting them— forcing  _ Crowley _ to inspect them. And now he can’t be around Aziraphale without feeling like his entire being is on fire, without feeling like he’s going to combust in normal, mundane fire— strong enough to burn him down to ashes completely but not strong enough to destroy him. Just enough to allow him to rise up all over again and burn down over and over and over with a ridiculous desire.

And the desires weren’t even all that sinful. Sure, Aziraphale’s little sounds while he ate were food for Crowley’s imagination, but that wasn’t only it. He also thought about reaching over into the gap between them and twining his fingers with Aziraphale’s, about placing a hand on Aziraphale’s knee while driving in the Bentley. He thought about waking up to Aziraphale, listening to his laugh, watching him putz around the bookshop for eternity. That—  _ that _ was what he wanted more than anything else.

And, yes, fine, he had known that for many, many years. But it wasn’t until Margerie that a light had been cast on it.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale starts to speak and Crowley is once again drawn away from his ridiculous wandering thoughts.

“Crowley?” The bell above the door jingles only a brief second before the voice sounds, no warning at all. “Aziraphale?”

Crowley and Aziraphale lock eyes across the small space between them and Crowley leans forward, desperately chasing the trailing ends of whatever Aziraphale was going to say. Whatever it was, it was important. Aziraphale didn’t wring his hands together like that for things that didn’t matter. And if it mattered to Aziraphale, it mattered to Crowley, always, no exception. So he wanted to know what it was, even if he wasn’t going to like it, he wanted to take that burden off of Aziraphale’s shoulders, to share it with him and to be by his side while he dealt with whatever it was.

Aziraphale took in a breath and Crowley nearly toppled off the couch because he was straining into the space between them with so much anticipation he could barely contain it. It was silent for one second, two, three. Aziraphale’s expression turned apologetic. Crowley collapsed back onto the pillows, snagging his sunglasses off the table and sliding them on, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale as he did so.

(Otherwise he would’ve seen the way Aziraphale’s expression fell, the way he almost seemed pained to see Crowley slide his defenses back up.)

“We’re back here, Margerie!” Aziraphale calls with the breath he’d taken in. “You can come on back!”

Aziraphale glances back at Crowley. Crowley can see it out of the corner of his eye but he’s still looking stubbornly away, mourning the loss of a moment he’d likely never get again. If it required Aziraphale to build up guts to say, it was unlikely that he’d ever get the courage to do it again. That was how Aziraphale functioned— do it the first time or never at all. It didn't bother Crowley on too many occasions, mostly because he did everything in his power to make sure Aziraphale was able to do whatever it was the first time. It was very, very rare that something came along and interrupted them, sweeping the moment out of their reach. 

Crowley huffs and it might be a bit petulant but Aziraphale isn’t going to call him out on it and they both know it. Plus, they can both hear Margerie shuffling her way through the bookshelves now, close enough that their voices would likely carry to wherever she was and she would become privy to their conversation. Not that Crowley particularly minded, he told Margerie everything after all. But there was a distinct difference in hearing it first hand versus Crowley telling her about it later. He wasn't against her hearing it first hand, but he knew what sort of things she would say if she was given the chance to hear Aziraphale's tone, to see his expression as he spoke. He knew the kind of ridiculous ideas she would drag out of that, the kind of ideas she would use as the final nail in the coffin of Crowley's poor human heart.

“Oh, good.” She says as she finally makes it around the last shelf and appears before them, a wrapped box clutched in her arms. “I was so hoping I’d find you here.”

“Me?” Crowley asks as he assembles his limbs back into a human shape and sits upright.

“Well, of course!” Margerie says with a bright smile. “I would expect to find Aziraphale here. It is his shop, after all.”

“What’ve I done?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale turns a huff of laughter into a cough. “Why were you looking for me? And what the hell is  _ that? _ ”

Margerie, undeterred as ever by anything Crowley could say, hikes the box up a little higher in her arms and beams at him from over the top of it. It’s not a particularly large box but it’s still big enough to really highlight how small and fragile Margerie is. Her arms barely wrap all the way around the box and she looks like she won’t be able to hold it for much longer, so Crowley rises from his seat and reaches out to take it from her arms, gesturing for her to take the spot he’d just vacated.

She goes willingly, sitting down with incredible grace, talking the whole way. “Honestly, Crowley, you didn’t think you could stop me from celebrating your birthday, did you?”

“My—  _ what? _ ” Crowley pauses, halfway back to the couch where he had been intending to rest his angular body on the armrest while they all talked. 

“Your birthday.” Margerie says with a particularly dastardly glint to her eye. “I know you’ve made a point to never tell me when it is, but that wasn’t going to keep me from finding out. I did get it right, didn’t I?”

Crowley casts his eyes around the room as he wracks his brain. He  _ had _ selected a birthday for himself at some point in history because human paperwork required human things like birthdays. He vaguely remembers it, flipping a calendar open randomly and dropping his finger onto the page with his eyes closed, committing to whatever date he landed on. It wasn’t something he thought about often, wasn’t something he could even recall if he were pressed because it had so little actual meaning to him. But Margerie wouldn’t just  _ guess _ or  _ hope _ that she had picked the right day. If she were here today with a  _ gift _ , apparently, she had seen his selected birthday  _ somewhere _ , he just wasn’t sure where.

“How did you find out?” He asks because there’s not much else he can really say.

Margerie, of course, looks utterly delighted at being correct and twice so for being able to figure it out behind his back. “Well, I can’t tell you that, now can I? I went by your flat earlier to give you your gift but you weren’t home. So, I was just hoping I’d find you here or else I might not get to celebrate with you on your actual birthday!”

“Birthday?” Aziraphale finally echoes and both Crowley and Margerie snap their eyes to him, as if they had briefly forgotten he was there. Margerie had been too caught up in the pleasure of her deceit and Crowley too lost in his confusion to even realize how quiet Aziraphale had been. “It’s your  _ birthday _ ?”

Crowley glances at him and then glances away because somehow the weight of their lost moment from before is still too heavy on his shoulders for him to bear the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze, too. “Er?”

“Oh dear.” Margerie glances between the two of them, her self satisfied smirk falling into something a little more uncertain. “Did you not know? I know he was keeping it a secret from me but, well, I assumed— you are the exception to everything, you know?”

Crowley shoots Margerie a glare at her casual way of tossing his words back in his face. She doesn’t look at him, but he sees the way her smile stretches a little wider.

“I hardly think—” Aziraphale cuts himself off. He doesn’t even need a knowing smile from Margerie or a sharp look from Crowley, the sentence just seems to abandon him as he tries to piece together all of the information that has been dropped in front of him. And for someone who understands that birthdays don’t mean absolutely anything to Crowley, for someone who knows that Crowley’s birthday isn’t even  _ real _ , Aziraphale sure looks dejected at the news that he’s had one all along and Aziraphale hasn’t known. “That is to say, he hasn’t ever told me, either.”

Crowley can’t say exactly why, but he feels like he needs to do damage control suddenly. “S’not a big deal. I don’t like celebrating.”

It’s not a lie, but that’s only because Crowley never has celebrated his birthday. He thinks he would’ve liked celebrating it, though, even if it were meaningless. It would’ve been a reason for them to meet up over the centuries, a reason to toast Aziraphale across the small table of some hidden pub, a reason for them to sneak off together to have a nightcap. It would’ve been a reason for them to walk along under the stars, leaning a little too close to each other in their drunken haze, laughing and clutching at each other as they went.

Crowley would’ve liked celebrating his birthday, but only if he were celebrating it with Aziraphale. 

“Well,” Margerie seems to read the tension in the room, to notice Aziraphale’s forlorn gaze and Crowley’s sudden uncertainty. She presses on despite it all, smoothing over it and forming a bridge between their mismatched emotions, drawing them all back together. “that was in the past. This year, you’re celebrating with us!”

“You don’t sound like you’re giving me much choice,” Crowley jokes to light the growing tension in the air between them. Well, Margerie wasn’t the source of any of the tension, it was all Aziraphale and his stupid, unspoken words.

Margerie, wonderful (wicked) woman that she was, smiled broadly at Crowley’s joke to help it land a little less flat. “I’m not.” And for a moment, the room seems to let out a collective breath. And then Margerie speaks again and Crowley takes back all the nice things he’d been thinking about her. “Now, I won’t stay too long in case you two want to have a— a more  _ intimate _ celebration. But I did want to spend at least some time with you on the actual day. Birthdays are special, you know?”

Crowley opens his mouth and he’s not sure if he’s going to refute her point— birthdays are only special if they’re real— or if he’s just going to tear her to shreds for her casual use of the word  _ intimate _ . He wouldn’t  _ actually _ tear her to shreds, and it’s not because Aziraphale is sitting a few feet away, but he  _ would _ make some sort of disapproving noise and glare at her so darkly that he could potentially eclipse the sun.

But he doesn’t get to make a decision for which of those two things he’s going to do because Aziraphale speaks over him before he has a chance, “Birthdays are special, you’re quite right.” All eyes turn back to Aziraphale again, the bookshop itself holding its breath as Aziraphale turns his gaze towards Crowley. There’s a faint dusting of pink along his cheeks and Crowley swears he feels his heart stop in his chest. “And I’d quite like to celebrate it with you, dear boy. If you’d let me.”

“ ‘course, Angel.” Crowley says without thinking, his breath barely making it into his lungs. He can’t stop looking at the way the flush spreads to the tip of Aziraphale’s ears, even the tip of his nose. “Whatever you want.”

“It’s not whatever  _ I _ want, Crowley. It’s  _ your  _ birthday.” Aziraphale replies softly, his words a gentle whisper into the open expanse of the room.

Crowley thinks that there is some sort of conversation that needs to happen here, some explanation he needs from Aziraphale because, for the life of him, he doesn’t understand why Aziraphale is making a big deal out of nothing. But there’s a time and a place for everything and, while the bookshop may be the correct location, the time was all wrong— it needed to wait until after Margerie left. So, Crowley just made some half committed noise and made a promise to think about how he wanted to spend his evening.

“Great!” Margerie said, once that was settled. “Now open your gift!”

Crowley paused, looking down at the wrapped box in his hands before glancing back at Margerie. “I— thank you, Margerie.”

“You’re supposed to say thank you  _ after _ you open the gift!” Margerie says, but Crowley can see the soft crinkle at the corner of her eyes that indicates how happy she is, how content she is in this moment. “And only if you like it!”

“I just—” Crowley takes a breath, glances at her through his glasses. “I’ve never gotten a birthday gift before.”

He expects Margerie to make some sort of fuss, to declare what a tragedy it is for him to have never received a gift. He half expects her to demand the phone number to his (non-existent) parents so she can phone them up and tell them off herself. Margerie— kind, sweet, loving Margerie— was the kind of person who thrived on celebrating those around her and showering them in affection. She would not take kindly to the idea that people hadn’t been spending all of Crowley’s life showering him with love and adoration.

But she was also an enigma— constantly keeping Crowley on his toes and saying things he didn’t expect. So he couldn’t suppress a fond smile when he watched Margerie’s expression fall for only a fraction of a second before she returned it back to a smile and gave him a simple answer of, “First time for everything. Now go on, dear, open it.”

Crowley took his time with the wrapping paper, peeling the tape off gently and doing his best not to rip anything. He folded the paper once he had it off the box, doing his best not to feel the weight of both Aziraphale and Margerie’s tender stares. He knew they were both impressed with the care he was taking, could feel the warmth of their mutual affection for him and it was more overwhelming than he anticipated it being.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been the recipient of affection like this before— Aziraphale had given him that exact tender stare more than once in history— but there was something about the concentration of it, about the weight of  _ two _ people giving him such love that made Crowley’s throat constrict.

The box inside was simple and white, no markings to give away what might be inside. The top was taped down, so Crowley picked at the tape just as gently as he had with the wrapping paper, peeling it back and then slowly opening the top. And there, inside, was a beautiful, gorgeous, flowering plant. Crowley took it out gently, spinning it around to inspect it, feeling himself smiling as he looked at its perfection.

“It’s beautiful.” He said quietly, setting the box aside before taking one of the leaves between his fingers so that he could look at it closer. “Not a leaf spot in sight.”

Margerie laughed openly at that. “Well, I can hardly give you something that you’re immediately going to pass off on me, now can I? You need to have it in your possession for a few weeks at the very least.”

“You’ll never get your hands on this one.” Crowley declares, and he means it. Even if this plant decides to give him trouble and get leaf spots, or withers from the inside out, Crowley won’t relinquish it. If there were ever a plant to start working on his patience with, a plant to treat with love and devotion instead of fear and malice, this was it. “I’m not sharing.”

“It really is beautiful.” Aziraphale agreed, leaning forward to inspect the plant himself, steading himself with a hand on the armrest of the couch, right next to Crowley’s hip. “Such a lovely thing. It’ll look gorgeous in your flat, Crowley.”

“Make all my other plants jealous.” Crowley tried not to think about Aziraphale’s hand placement, tried not to wonder what it would feel like if he moved his hand a few inches, his thumb brushing Crowley’s hip, his fingers against Crowley’s thigh. He tried not to wonder if Aziraphale would ever do something like that, would ever  _ want _ to do something like that, but the questions were proving to be all consuming. Crowley could barely pull it together enough to address Margerie again. “I love it, thank you.”

And even though his mind was preoccupied with Aziraphale, Crowley meant every word of what he said. He  _ did _ love the plant, and he was more thankful than he, a demon, could ever put properly into words. It was, perhaps, the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him and Crowley could feel a lump in his throat as he thought about it, as he inspected the beautiful plant in his hands. He owed Margerie a great deal and the list, it seemed, was going to just keep growing. 

“I’m so glad you like it.” Margerie sounded a little breathless with emotion and Crowley found that, for a moment, he completely forgot about Aziraphale and his remaining close proximity.

Instead, all he could think about was Margerie as she wrapped an arm around him, her other arm snaking around Aziraphale’s neck since he was still in the area. All he could think about was the press of both of their bodies, the way he had to snake the plant out to the side so it didn’t get crushed as they all huddled closer. In the end, Crowley had one arm thrown around Margerie’s neck, the plant clutched tightly in his grasp over her shoulder, the other wrapped around Aziraphale, hand coming to rest along his hip, pulling them both closer. They each had their arms around him— and each other— and Crowley could feel the press of Aziraphale’s hand on the small of his back, hand warm through the fabric of his shirt. Margerie’s hand was gripping his shoulder, squeezing it— a physical symbol of the love she had for him. Again, Crowley felt his throat constricting at the realizations of it. 

“Happy birthday,” Margerie breathed into the small space between the two of them, pressing a kiss to his temple before pulling away.

They disentangled from the hug, both Margerie and Aziraphale taking a few steps back while Crowley remained seated where he was. There was a silence for a moment, but it was comfortable, and punctuated with a lot of adoration and unspoken feelings. There was something settled deep into Crowley’s gut, something filling the pit of his stomach with unbridled warmth— happiness, he realized as he glanced back down at the plant. He was unreasonably happy.

(Were demons allowed to be this happy? Crowley didn’t think so but he wasn’t going to look at it too closely lest it get taken away from him somehow. Surely God still had to be at least a little peeved off at him).

“Okay, one last thing!” Margerie drew Crowley out of his train of thought, already shuffling across the room to her bag which she had dropped as soon as she’d arrived. She braced one hand on the couch as she bent over to rummage inside of it, pulling out a few (utterly ridiculous) party hats a moment later. “Here we are!”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley said immediately, recoiling at just the  _ implication _ of it. “No way, not a  _ chance _ .”

Aziraphale, on the other hand, looked  _ delighted _ . “Oh, I love them!”

“Just a quick photo.” Margerie reasoned, already crossing the room to their sides again, extending a party hat towards Aziraphale who took it willingly and with far more excitement than he should.

Crowley groaned when the hat was extended to him, making a point of clutching the plant with both hands, refusing the proffered hat. Margerie huffed at him, fondly and affectionately and reached up to place the hat on top of his head, snapping the string gently under his chin. Crowley glowered at her, but she simply ignored it, placing one on her own head. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said after a moment, and Crowley turned to look over at him just in time to see a hand coming up towards his face. Crowley stilled in place as Aziraphale threaded his fingers into his hair, straightening out a few pieces where they must’ve fallen out of place alongside his hat. 

It only took a moment, but it was perhaps the longest moment of Crowley’s life and he found himself deliriously thankful that his body didn’t actually  _ need _ to breathe.

In the time it had taken for Crowley to completely lose his mind at Aziraphale’s touch, Margerie had managed to produce a camera from somewhere and was suddenly directing them together, closer, closer,  _ closer _ .

“Look like you like each other!” She said with a roll of her eyes, pressing Aziraphale closer by the shoulder.

Aziraphale obliged, sliding right up to Crowley’s side and pressing into him, glancing sideways at Crowley to grin cheekily at him. Once Margerie was satisfied with their proximity, she slit into Crowley’s other side, leaning back against the couch and relying on Crowley’s arm behind her back to hold her upright as she held the camera in front of them, angling it in an attempt to fit all of them in the same picture. It was an old camera— seriously, Crowley hadn’t seen one like it in  _ years—  _ and there was no screen on the front to help them see if they were all making it in frame. It didn’t deter Margerie, though, and Crowley heard the distinct click of the camera taking multiple photos in a row.

“There,” She replied, satisfied, and started to pull away.

But something seized Crowley and he held her in place with the arm he had around her, “Wait, hold on.” He pulled his arm away from Aziraphale regretfully, fishing into his pocket for his phone and flipping into his front camera before handing the phone to Margerie. “One for me, too.”

If either Margerie or Aziraphale were touched by his gesture, they didn’t say. But they did all squish together again, smiles brimming on all of their faces as Margerie clicked a few more photos. Once they were all satisfied, they separated for the final time and Crowley tried not to mourn the loss of both of them as his sides grew cold. Margerie bid them both farewell, reminding them to celebrate “properly” (Crowley had nearly choked at the choice of work) and kissing them both on the cheeks before slowly making her way towards the door.

Before she was even fully out of the shop, Crowley had changed the background on his phone.

(It wouldn’t be until a week or so later that he’d find the same photo framed in Margerie’s flat, right inside the front door so that anyone who entered would see it).

* * *

It wasn’t often that Margerie was in Crowley’s flat, so it was always a special treat when she got to come over. It wasn’t that Crowley tried to keep her out, not at all, but simply that it was much harder for her to make it up to his flat than it was for him to make it down to hers. But she was nothing if not incapable of denying Crowley when he had called her in a complete tizzy, begging her to come over and to bring flour with her.

And so she found herself staring obligingly at his flat door, a sack of flour clutched against her chest as she knocked with her free hand. It only took a moment for the door to fly open and to reveal a particularly disheveled Crowley on the other side. She couldn’t see his eyes with his glasses on, but she could feel how wild they must be just based on the way his shirt was buttoned incorrectly and his hair was falling limply around his face in a few places instead of in it’s normal, perfectly styled coif. 

“Crowley?” Margerie asked, scanning over him as she stepped into the flat. 

Crowley reached out to take the flour out of her grasp before mumbling a “I need help baking those brownies.”

“What?” Margerie trailed him down the hall and into the kitchen that was identical to hers in every way and yet incredibly sleek and distinctly unlived in. It would probably alarm her if she didn’t know how much time he spent at the bookshop with Aziraphale. “You’re baking my brownies?”

“If you’ll help me.” Crowley said and he stopped in front of the counter which looked like a complete disaster of ingredients. 

Sugar had spilled and the granules were even on the ground, sticking to Crowley’s socks as he stood there helplessly staring at his mess. The flour bag that he had was torn and empty, a few poofs of flour sticking to various surfaces. He had a measuring cup filled with chocolate chips sitting off to the side, clearly uncertain of what he was supposed to do with them. There was a stick of butter sitting out on a plate, the wrapper still half on and a knife wedged into it. It was incredibly clear that he really didn’t have any idea what he was doing.

“Oh, Crowley.” Margerie took in the sight before her and felt nothing but love swell in her chest. “What’s the occasion?”

Crowley had made a point over their years to indicate that he  _ could _ cook, and he could cook well, thank you very much. He’d mentioned baking once or twice, insisting that he was also competent in that, but the mess in front of them proved otherwise. But there was passion here, a dedication and a desire to please. There was love in this mess, Margerie could feel it filling the room until it was almost suffocating. 

Crowley glanced away, his cheeks suddenly flushing with color. He mumbled something that didn’t actually make any sense. Margerie waited, letting her silence ask the question for her. Crowley fought against it for as long as he could, holding out stubbornly against having to actually explain what he was doing, but in the end the silence wore him down.

With a huff, he pinched his eyes closed and tried again. “Aziraphale was having a bad week and he’s coming over tonight s’thought I’d— thought I’d surprise him… or something.”

Now Margerie knew that Crowley didn’t like to talk about his feelings for Aziraphale, didn’t like how weak they made him sound. She  _ knew _ that he always bristled and then dodged her questions, he always glared sharply at her when she tried to put a name to the things he was feeling. She knew all of this with unwavering certainty and yet, she couldn’t let this go without saying  _ something _ . 

Margerie had known Crowley for a few years at this point and she had watched him change significantly throughout them. She’d watched him soften, watched him open up, watched him step into the world as his own person. He had been so distant when she’d first met him, closed off and uncertain. He’d had chips on his shoulder and cracks in his heart and he’d come with a mask to cover all of them. And he still had those chips, those cracks, but he didn’t wear the mask anymore, he didn't try to push her out. 

He was softer around the edges, more relaxed. Ever since that day when he had shown back up on her doorstep after what she had thought was a goodbye, he had seemed like the world fit him better.

“I’m sure it will cheer him up.” She said gently, because it was the simplest way for her to express what she wanted to say. It was the response that would get her the least adverse reaction from Crowley. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“Just—” Crowley took a deep breath, blew it out through his mouth slowly but surely. “Just help me, would you? He’ll be here soon.”

And so, Margerie did. She slid up next to him at the counter, one hand holding on to keep her steady while she started rattling off the ingredients and the order in which they were assembled. Crowley followed as dutifully as he could, his face screwed into a mask of confusion as she used terms he didn’t understand and Margerie couldn’t help but smile the whole way through. 

“Next you’ll need eggs.” Margerie said as the batter was starting to take shape.

“Eggs?” Crowley said and his eyebrows knitted so close together, she almost couldn’t see them over the rim of his glasses. “Eggs—  _ fuck _ , I don’t think I’ve got any.”

Before she could even say anything, Crowley was ripping his fridge open and scouring the nearly empty insides, cursing under his breath as he did so— no eggs in sight.

“It’s alright.” Margerie said, placing a hand on Crowley’s shoulder to stop the outburst that she could see building up inside of him at the words. “I’ve got some down in my flat, I’ll pop down and get them really quick. Just hang tight.” Crowley blew out a relieved breath and nearly sagged into the counter. “Just preheat the oven while I’m gone.”

Dutifully, Crowley reached for the oven as Margerie made her way back down the hall and towards the door. She left her shoes behind, taking the elevator down a single floor and hobbling over to her own flat. She made quick work of grabbing the eggs, pausing to snag two aprons off of the hook in her kitchen as she went back. If the mess Crowley had already made was anything to go by, the odds of their clothes being covered in flour was highly likely. 

As she made her way back up to his flat, she felt her steps lightening. This was clearly important to Crowley— drastically important, more important than she had seen anything be to him yet. After her blunder at Crowley’s birthday— although it  _ had _ turned out alright— she was worried that she had forced the two of them to accidentally take a step back. Crowley had said that they’d had a brief chat about his birthday and why he’d kept it hidden, and that it had gone well. She hadn’t asked for more details because she didn’t feel entitled to more information— it sounded like it had been an intimate conversation and she felt like they deserved to keep that to themselves. All that mattered was that they had resolved things and seemed, from her point of view, closer than ever.

“Alright, I’ve got the eggs!” Margerie called as she let herself into Crowley’s apartment, walking straight past her shoes and into the kitchen again.

Crowley was standing where she’d left him at the counter, staring forlornly at the mess in front of him as if he’d just realized that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Margerie paused in the doorway to observe him, tight, dark clothes, shirt just slightly askew on his shoulders from where he’d buttoned it wrong, hair still a complete wreck. 

Slowly, he turned from the counter to look at Margerie. “What am I doing?” he asked hoarsely.

To that, Margerie couldn’t stifle a smile. She stepped right up to him, passing the eggs over to his waiting hands. “You’re winning your man. Let’s do this.”

“Margerie—” 

“Let’s go!” She repeated more firmly, gesturing towards the bowl of brownie batter on the counter. 

Crowley looked at the bowl and then back at Margerie, taking a breath that was clearly meant to steel himself. “Right.” He said after a moment. “Right, yeah. Let’s finish.”

“Great,” Margerie smiled in a way she hoped was encouraging, placing a hand on his forearm and giving it a squeeze. “Just put this on and we’ll finish up.”

The look that crossed Crowley’s face at the sight of the pink apron was nothing short of comical. He opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, snapped his jaw shut again. Margerie stood there quietly for a moment, apron held into the space between them, watching as Crowley’s expressions morphed through all of the stages of grief in quick succession before finally settling on acceptance. With a heavy sigh, Crowley took the apron and slid it over his head, grumbling to himself as he tied it behind his back. He appeared to have fixed his shirt, buttoning it correctly and rolling the sleeves up past his elbows. His hair was styled— at least moreso than it had been when she’d left, though it mostly looked like he’d just been running his hands through it. 

“There.” He said after a moment, smoothing his hands down the pink fabric, pointedly avoiding the ruffles at the bottom. It was a stark contrast to his all black outfit and he looked  _ ridiculous _ , but he also looked  _ charming _ and Margerie couldn’t stop grinning at him. “Can we get a move on now? Aziraphale will be here soon.”

Margerie spared him a comment and slipped on her own apron, directing him on how to mix the eggs in while she tied hers behind her back, too. Crowley picked up an egg, tapping it too hard on the edge of the counter and cursing as it broke in his hand, dripping through his fingers and onto the counter and floor. Crowley jumped back, but the damage was already done. Margerie couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling up her throat as he threw the shell into the sink and began to wash his hand, wiping sloppily at the egg with a towel.

“It needs a gentler touch.” Margerie said after a few particularly nasty glares when her laughter didn’t immediately die down. “You do everything too harshly, Crowley. It won’t kill you to show a bit of love.”

“I might.” Crowley grumbled back as he finally took another egg, tapping it more gently on the counter this time.

The egg cracked as it was supposed to, breaking up enough for Crowley to snap it all the way open with his hands over the bowl. He cracked a second egg and then a third, throwing those shells into the sink with the first one. Seeming satisfied with this, Crowley brought the bowl closer to him, stirring vigorously— too vigorously, as it were, because a large amount of flour came flying out of the bowl, coating Crowley’s apron and getting up onto his shoulders. 

“Nobody told me that baking was a  _ fucking hazard _ !” Crowley yelled, shoving the bowl away and wiping at his apron and shirt. It didn’t accomplish much, the flour stayed stubbornly where it was, sinking into his clothes deeper with the pressure of his hands. “This is why I never do it!”

Margerie allowed him a moment to huff and throw his hands around in frustration. She watched him reach up to run his hands through his hair, realizing too belatedly that he was about to smear flour in his hair, too. Sure enough, his hands sunk into the red, leaving behind streaks of white. It took every ounce of self control Margerie had to not keel over laughing on the spot. She took a few deep breaths, biting at the edge of her lip, hand gripping the counter to keep her balance as her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“I’ve never seen you so worked up over something.” She finally commented when she was able to get herself back under some semblance of control. 

Crowley gripped the counter with both hands and dropped his head between his arms, the tension clear across his shoulders. “He had— he had a bad week and I just wanted…” He groaned and stood upright all at once, as if a burst of energy had suddenly seized him. “I just wanted to do something nice for him, okay? Put in a bit of effort.”

“Okay.” Margerie said kindly, reaching out to take his hands in her own. “So put in that effort. Slow down a bit, take it easy. He’s going to love them and we both know that. Stop trying to beat the brownies up as if you’re threatening them to be good for him.”

“I—” Crowley started to respond, looking incredibly startled at her statement. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a war between bemusement and shock as he stared back at her, uncertain of how to actually follow that up.

“Try again.” Margerie urged when he never seemed to figure out what he was going to say. “Slowly this time.”

And Crowley did.

He reached out for the bowl again, gripping it with one hand and snagging the spatula in his other. His shoulders were still tense as he started to stir again, slowly this time. It went smoothly (finally), and the ingredients started to mix together like they were supposed to. With each sweep of his spatula, his tension seemed to ease and his shoulders crept away from his ears. Finally everything was mixed together and Marger was greasing the pan and then setting it on the counter next to him. Crowley took his cue, pouring the batter into the pan and smoothing it out at Margerie’s instruction.

It took awhile to get there, but in the end the brownies were being slid into the oven and they looked beautiful. And Margerie, although she had some of the flour dusting her apron, too, hadn’t done a single thing. Crowley had made them entirely himself.

“Now it’s time for the best part!” Margerie smiled broadly at him. “Eating the batter left in the bowl!”

Crowley laughed, seeming to finally be at ease now that the brownies were done and baking. He stepped aside so Margerie could slide up next to him and together they ditched the spoon and used their fingers to scrape out the remaining batter, laughing and chatting as they ate.

They were so lost in conversation that neither heard the door as it opened. It wasn’t until Aziraphale was padding down the hallway that they realized he was even there, both spinning around to stare at him as he entered the kitchen, looking like guilty children with their hands caught in the cookie jar.

Aziraphale stops in the doorway, a bottle of wine gripped in one hand, the other bracing on the doorframe as he stares at them. Well, more specifically, as he stared at  _ Crowley _ . He made no attempt to hide his gaze as it traveled from Crowley’s flour covered hair down to his pink, frilly, flour covered apron and then back up again. He opened his mouth and then shut it, swallowing visibly from across the room. In only a few seconds, his cheeks were nearly as pink as Crowley’s apron.

The silence seemed to stretch between the two of them, pulling taut and waiting for something to snap it. Margerie watched Aziraphale’s gaze trail over Crowley  _ again _ , noticed the way he looked like he was losing some sort of battle with himself. 

“You’re wearing an apron.” Aziraphale finally said, his voice sounding like gravel. “And it’s covered in flour.”

“I am.” Crowley said, seeming surprised at his ability to speak at all under the weight of Aziraphale’s heated gaze. “It is.”

“You’ve got flour on your face.” Aziraphale continued, pointing to a spot on his own cheek to indicate where he was talking about.

Crowley reached up and swiped a hand across his cheek and nose frantically, smearing some batter across his face instead. Margerie watched it happen, her eyes whipping around to Aziraphale as soon as she realized what was happening. Aziraphale’s lips parted, his eyes going wide and his grip on the doorframe tightening to the point that his knuckles were turning white. He took in a breath that could only be described as shuddering— Margerie watched the way it wracked through him, the way it seemed like he was shaking apart at his very core. She watched him take a breath, snap his jaw shut, try to hold himself together like the sight of Crowley wasn’t undoing him completely.

She expected him to say something, and he did, but she didn’t expect any action to accompany his words. In fact, she didn’t actually expect his words to be coherent. She expected him to splutter, to stutter and stumble through half sentences the way Crowley usually did, expected his clear desire to rattle its way out through his words.

Instead, Aziraphale released the door jamb and crossed the room to stand in front of Crowley, both of them standing stick straight as they stared at each other from the nearly nonexistent distance between them.

“You’ve got batter on your face now.” Aziraphale finally breathes, like he’s repeating some blessing, sending some thank you to the power above. “Just—”

And then he reaches out to swipe a thumb across Crowley’s cheek, wiping away the batter that had been smeared there. Crowley’s breath hitches, catching in his throat, and then whistling out through his teeth. There’s a long moment where they just stay like that, wrapped in their own world, their faces matching shades of red. Aziraphale’s hand stays on Crowley’s face, his palm cupping his cheek. They breathe in unison, their breaths uneven, so close that their chests almost touch with each inhale.

The room is practically alive with tension, Margerie can feel it pressing on her shoulders. They’ve both completely forgotten that she’s there, wrapped up in only each other. She spares a glance to make sure that the timer on the oven is counting down properly and then she slowly heads towards the door.

* * *

For all the ways that life is completely normal, life is absolutely not normal at all. Things continue the way they have for years, for  _ centuries _ . Aziraphale continues to invite Crowley to the theater, Crowley continues to show up at the shop uninvited but completely welcome. They chat over their wine glasses, exchange glances in dimly lit diners. Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley as he foments disruptions, spreads general feelings of unease and irritation. It’s exactly as it always has been.

Except now Aziraphale does things like wipe batter off of his cheek and then—  _ and then _ he has the audacity to  _ lick _ the batter off of his fingers like he doesn’t realize that he might discorporate Crowley on the spot. He presses closer to Crowley in those dimly lit bars, whispers directly in his ear, his breath tickling at Crowley’s neck. He occasionally even joins Crowley on the couch in the back of the bookshop, book open in his lap as he sends him affectionate gazes between sentences.

It’s like an amplified version of what they’ve spent six-thousand years doing. It’s a new rhythm to the dance that they know so well. 

“Dear? Dear?” Crowley blinks a few times to focus on Aziraphale who is sitting across from him in the diner, a menu open before him

It was a new place that they’d never been to before, surprisingly packed with people. They should’ve stood out— Aziraphale especially in his attire that he hadn’t updated in centuries— but nobody was giving them a second thought. The conversation swelled around them, rising and falling as people laughed and joked, the atmosphere warm and inviting. It was easy to melt into the masses, to lean back in his chair, sunglasses hiding his expressions from anyone who might dare look at their table. It was easy to cross his arms over his chest, and pretend like he hadn’t just been lost entirely in his thoughts while Aziraphale had been clearly trying to get his attention.

“Sorry, zoned out.” Crowley mumbled, angling his head down so he could see Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “What were you saying?”

Aziraphale met his gaze unwaveringly, his eyebrows drawing together in a silent question. Crowley gave him a slight shake of the head and Aziraphale relaxed. It was strange— their ability to have these sorts of conversations, the ones without words. It was a habit they had developed years and years ago, a necessity at the time. It had started back when they were enemies, when they needed to be able to convey messages to each other without saying them out loud— because back then, saying them out loud would be nothing short of damnation. 

Somewhere over the years it had morphed. It was no longer just a way to pass messages, but a fundamental understanding they had of each other. It was a sign of their closeness, a way for them to reach out to each other and to find each other, even when everything else was going wrong. It was something that bound them together through everything.

“I was wondering if you’d decided on what you wanted?” Aziraphale lowered his gaze back to the menu in contemplation. 

“Not yet.” Crowley answers, because he hasn’t even glanced at the menu. Wasn’t really planning on glancing at it, either. As long as he could get a glass of wine or a tumbler of scotch with whatever food he ordered, he didn’t care what ended up on his plate. “What’re you getting?”

For appearances, though, he pretended to peruse the menu. But this, too, was a well practiced dance between the two of them. Aziraphale would narrow his options down to the two that appealed the most two him, waffling back and forth, uncertain which one to land on. And then Crowley would generously offer to order one of them and share a few bites with Aziraphale. A few bites would turn into a few more and eventually Aziraphale would be able to have the entirety of both meals to himself. Or, well, the majority of both meals. Aziraphale would no doubt insist that Crowley try a bite of each, for the sake of fairness. Crowley would, barely tasting either bite, insisting that neither particularly tickled his fancy and no, please, by all means eat it, I don’t mind.

Sure enough, Aziraphale leaned across the table to point out two things on the menu, elaborating on his reasons for suggesting both and explaining why it was such a difficult decision. Crowley listened, leaning forward himself so that they were only a few inches apart as he listened, humming in acknowledgement of Aziraphale’s words. And then, just like all the other times in history, Crowley seamlessly slid into the conversation with his usual suggestion and for a brief moment, the world was exactly how Crowley was used to it being.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured, resting his hand on top of Crowley’s where it was now sitting on the table, fingers slotting through his with absolute ease. “You’re too good to me.”

Crowley froze where he was, staring at Aziraphale, head tilted towards him. It felt, for a moment, like time could just stop— or maybe like time  _ did _ stop, just like the breath froze in Crowley’s lungs. A thought struck him, then, and he felt almost powerless to stop it. He could kiss Aziraphale. He could do it, right here and now, could lean forward and capture Aziraphale’s lips in the middle of this restaurant where anyone could see. 

He could just imagine it— the surprised noise Aziraphale would make as his lips parted underneath Crowley’s, the way he would taste like the wine he’d been sipping on. He could practically  _ feel _ the way Aziraphale’s hand would find its way to his shoulder and then up to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging slightly. He could feel how Aziraphale would push closer, their chests flush, reaching across the distance to pull him closer, closer,  _ closer _ until they were burning down together.

The thought was so easy to fall into, a daydream Crowley had lost himself to more than once. But that’s what it was— a dream. The real Aziraphale, the one sitting a few feet away from him, holding his hand,  _ that _ Aziraphale wouldn’t do those things. That Aziraphale had spent six-thousand years looking over his shoulder, pushing Crowley away, second guessing every decision he made. That Aziraphale didn’t do bold things like snog in the middle of a restaurant. 

For  _ this _ Aziraphale, the real Aziraphale, the one that Crowley was in love with, something like holding hands over the dinner table was a big gesture,  _ huge _ . 

So Crowley banished his daydream, pushed it away and locked it back up in the recesses of his mind. It was a nice dream, a nice thought to sink into after a long, stressful day. But this— the genuine and real weight of Aziraphale’s hand in his, was far better than anything his mind could conjure up. This was worth giving up a million dreams. So, Crowley gently, slowly so as not to startle both of them, flipped his hand over, intertwining his fingers with Aziraphale’s properly. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, surprised yet delighted, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. His face was flush as he looked up at Crowley through his lashes, the low light of the pub making his eyes an especially bright blue.

It was the smallest contact, so much less than what Crowley had been imagining, and yet he felt like his entire soul was aflame inside of him, like he was shining with some divine, holy light of pure love and adoration. Stubbornly, and because Crowley could feel his throat tightening and the threat of— were those  _ tears _ ?— he turned his head away, eyes scanning across the sea of faces until he found something to keep his attention, something that would help fight back the wave of emotions that was threatening to pull him under.

And—

And—

Of fucking  _ course _ , Crowley thinks bitterly, a new emotion fighting for space in his heart. Is it embarrassment he feels when he locks eyes with Margerie across the restaurant, her smile knowing and a little smug? She glances pointedly at their conjoined hands where they sit on top of the table before meeting his eyes again and giving him a subtle thumbs up so her daughter, Crowley recognizes the woman sitting across from her, wouldn’t notice. He wants to groan and smash his head into the table but he doesn’t, mostly because it would likely make Aziraphale think he didn’t like the hand holding. But he did. He loved it.

The maintained eye contact for a moment longer before Margerie purposefully turned away and Crowley knew she was giving him space, giving him privacy. He loved her for it. So, with a steadying breath, he turned back to Aziraphale, squeezing his hand and meeting his gaze with a (definitely not completely love-struck) smile of his own.

* * *

Margerie had known that it was supposed to snow today but she had thought she’d be able to run a few errands before the storm hit. Of course, she wasn’t taking into account how much slower she moved these days, and how much slower the city moved in general during the colder months of the year. It was like the frost crept into everyone’s joints, keeping them still. There were people walking down the street that Margerie was able to pass with ease, which she figured should definitely  _ not  _ be the case.

As it were, the snow came earlier than she expected. Or she took longer to run her errands than she expected. She couldn’t honestly say which was the case and the odds were that it was a mix of both. It didn’t really matter which was the case, all that mattered was that the large snowflakes were falling hard and fast and Margerie could barely make it down the street through them. The ground was wet underneath her feet, the snow quickly turning to the kind of slush that tried to hold boots hostage and trip people if they stepped in too deeply.

Luckily, she was only a few shops down from Aziraphale’s bookshop, which would provide her the perfect cover until the snowflakes let up. Or, at the very least, Crowley would be there and willing to drive her home. She’d seen him leave this morning with a paper bag in his clutches and could only assume that’s where he was headed. Worst case scenario, she would get to enjoy some tea with Aziraphale while they watched the flakes dance down towards the city, because the snow was beautiful when you were choosing to watch it instead of being caught in it.

The inside of the shop appeared dark as she approached, but the door practically sprung open under her touch, allowing her entrance before she could really even pull on it. The bell jingled as she entered and she paused in the entryway to stamp some of the snow off of her boots, shaking it out of the hood of her coat and brushing it from her shoulders. She felt a little bad at creating a small pile just inside Aziraphale’s shop, but there wasn’t much else she could do with it.

Just as she was finishing dusting off her shoulders, Aziraphale appeared around one of the corners. “Ah, Margerie, I thought that might be you!”

“Crowley already here, then?” Margerie teased, smiling at Aziraphale’s welcoming grin. 

“He’s actually out at the moment picking up some food. Would you like to stay? I could phone him and have him add to the order!” Aziraphale crossed the remaining space between them, helping Margerie remove her coat (something she hadn’t planned on doing) and hanging it on the rack just off to her left. 

“Oh, that’s very sweet, but no thank you. I wouldn’t want to impose.” Margerie waved off the offer, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze steadfastly to warn off any retort that was building on his tongue. “I was simply hoping to wait out the worst of the snow. I fear I wouldn’t feel safe driving in these conditions.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, his gaze drifting past her shoulder and towards the windows. “I do quite agree. I’m a little worried about Crowley driving in it, if we’re honest.”

Margerie laughs and she feels warm. “If he’s to be believed, you worry about his driving even in the best weather conditions.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking distinctly put out, “You  _ have _ driven with him, haven’t you? Surely you understand  _ why _ .”

“A few times, yes.” She replies, and takes the arm Aziraphale is offering to her as he starts to guide her towards the back. “He wasn’t that terrible.”

“He must be tame for you.” Aziraphale murmurs. “I wonder what it would be like to ride with him without fearing for my life.”

Margerie laughs again and even Aziraphale cracks a bit of a smile. “I’m certain you could find out if you just asked him.”

“Or,” Aziraphale says pointedly as they make it to the back of the shop. “I could just avoid riding in the car with him all together.”

With a tilt of her head, Margerie concedes the point and takes a seat on the couch in the back. The couch itself is incredibly comfortable but, as she’s learned in her few previous encounters with it, it likes to try and suck her in, glueing her to it so that she’s incapable of leaving. And while she would love to stay, she’s getting tired and all three of them have their own, separate lives to live. In fact, she isn’t even sure she’ll stay around long enough to see Crowley. Her legs are aching, her back is sore and she simply wants to be home and change into comfier clothes and relax. 

“Would you like a spot of tea?” Aziraphale asked after a moment.

Margerie was getting to know and understand Aziraphale better. She remembers her first time coming by this shop, sitting near him and feeling the words stick in the back of her throat for fear of how he’d react. She doesn’t feel that way anymore. She doesn’t understand him perfectly, but she sees his soft spots now, knows where he hides his buttons, can anticipate what he’ll do. She’s starting to recognize his smiles, to understand when his laugh is genuine and when it’s simply out of discomfort, to read his body language.

He, too, is nestling his way deep into her heart and filling in the remaining cracks.

“No, thank you. I won’t be in your hair long, just until the snow lets up.” She smiles at his genuine offer. If there were one word she would have to use to describe him in every encounter she’s had with him thus far, it would be gentlemanly. 

“Nonsense, you aren’t in my hair at all. I quite enjoy it when you come to visit.” Aziraphale assures her.

Margerie meets his gaze steadily. “Even though I bring up Crowley and your relationship with him every time I visit?”

That gets a small laugh out of Aziraphale. “Yes, even though you do that.”

“Well, in that case, there’s no reason for me not to bring it up again.” She smiles sweetly at her and the second laugh that she’s rewarded with is genuine and fond, not at all forced. She feels a swell of happiness in her chest that she’s gotten to a point where she can talk with him like this and understand how he reacts. “Because I’m certain that you love him.”

“I—” Aziraphale begins but then he stops. Margerie doesn’t know if he was going to deny her statement or not, but it doesn’t matter because he changes gears and takes a deep breath. “You must understand that things between us were… difficult for awhile. Not— not  _ between _ us, we’ve always been close. But rather, our situations put us in difficult positions that didn’t allow us to, ah, be as close as we were. They certainly wouldn’t have allowed us to be any closer.”

“And your situations now?” Margerie presses. She’s pieced together a mosaic of their relationship, taken the bits and pieces of information that each of them have dropped over time and put them together into one larger picture. It still has gaps, but it’s enough to explain their behaviors, their hesitations and their fears. “Are they different.”

“They are.” Aziraphale admits after a moment, looking down to where he has his hands clasped in his lap. “But old habits die hard. Or old fears, as it is in this case.”

Margerie considers this, because she has always been in a position that allowed her to love freely and to show her affection to anyone she wanted. She’s never had to feel like she  _ couldn’t _ or  _ shouldn’t _ love someone for any reason. But she can understand the fear that would come, can understand the way it would root deep into her heart, making a home there and refusing to be evicted.

“I understand that saying the past is in the past doesn’t just immediately quell those fears.” She starts after a moment’s thought, gathering her words together. “And I understand that it will take some time to overcome them. And I think you are overcoming them, both of you. You seem to be getting closer. But—” She pauses, takes in a breath, looks up at Aziraphale. His gaze is unguarded as he looks back at her, leaning forward as if he’s waiting with baited breath for her to finish her thought. “But he doesn’t see it, the way you look at him.”

Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath and leans back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose as he considers this. She watches the way his chest rises and falls as he takes a few more breaths. “He doesn’t, does he?”

“No.”

Aziraphale lowers his hand, opens his eyes, smiles a smile that is both brilliant and inherently sad somehow. “I love him.” He breathes, because Margerie already knows, because he doesn’t need to keep it a secret here, because he feels safe enough around her to admit to it. “I have loved him for quite some time.”

“I know.”

“But he doesn’t.”

“He’s—” Margerie pauses, sifting through all the information that Crowley has given her, all the hints he’s dropped, all the moments he’s allowed her to glimpse behind his mask to the broken man within. “He wouldn’t believe it, even if he saw it. He doesn’t think he deserves it. But also, no, I don’t think he does see it.”

Aziraphale blows a breath out through his mouth. “We’ve really gotten ourselves into quite the mess, haven’t we?”

“Yes, you rather have.” Margerie replies and her agreement seems to startle Aziraphale who laughs despite himself. “But you can get out of this mess, you just have to tell him how you feel. I’ve given him the same advice but I fear he’s far too worried to ever go through with it.”

“He—?”

“Of course he does.” Margerie nearly scoffs. “You already know that.”

Aziraphale glances down again.

There it is, the truth hanging in the air between them, finally put (mostly) into words. It’s the truth she’s watched them dance around for nearly two years now, the truth they both admit to dancing around for far longer than that. 

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale says after a moment. “What if he says no, what if he rejects—”

“He won’t.”

“But what if he  _ does _ ?”

“He  _ won’t _ .” Margerie emphasizes again, leaning forward to look at Aziraphale. “Listen, dear, I’m not saying you should do it the moment he walks through the door. I just want you to think about it.” She reaches for his hand and Aziraphale leans forward to meet her in the middle, clasping her hand gently in both of his. “You both could be so happy if you took that final step and I want that for both of you so badly, that happiness.”

“I promise to consider it.” Aziraphale agrees after a moment, and he swallows like he’s choked up. The bell above the door jingles in what Margerie can only assume is a signal of Crowley’s arrival with their food. She starts to pull away but Aziraphale holds on tightly to her hands for a moment, meeting her gaze with a soft smile. “I’m very thankful for you, you know. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”

“No,” Margerie replies, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand with all the love in her heart. “ _ You _ are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, that night after the apocalypse when Crowley stayed at Margerie's, his wallet fell out of his pocket while he was tossing and turning and fending off nightmares. When she picked it up and set it on the table with his glasses, she might've caught a glimpse of his driver's license where his birthday was clearly stated. (He didn't _need_ a driver's license but he rather liked the idea of it, miracling it every few years to make sure it stayed current instead of bothering with any additional paperwork).


End file.
